Endgame
by JackOwens1860
Summary: Following a beatdown from Gotham's bottom-feeders, Jason finds himself in bed recovering from a concussion amongst other things. Bruce pays him a visit. Fluff? Between these two? I wish. Probably as close as it gets. Jason's POV Rated T for certain words.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: Fluff is not something that happens between Jason and Bruce, even when the former is in bed with a concussion. This is probably as close to fluff as it gets. Just to clarify, Jason is bad-ass and freakishly strong as Robin in my mind. This story demonstrates these capabilities quite aptly in the opening section. His resilience is depicted in the second section. Depenant on response, I may publish further chapters. Enjoy.**

**Endgame **

My dad used to beat me. Clichéd right? It's like 'man up kid; that happens somewhere every day in the world', 'don't be such a pussy'. And I'm fine with that. He only beat me because I was being a little prick. He never laid a hand on my mom, not once; have to respect a thug for having that kind of restraint. Now, I'd do anything to have those kinds of punishments back. My dad only ever beat me with a belt; at present, five guys are trying to crack my skull open with lead pipes and tire-irons. They're pretty good at it too; I can feel the fuzz starting to creep into my vision. Where's Robin's back-up while this is going on? The big guy's tied up with half-a-dozen heavily-armed drug barons inside a warehouse. Yep, I'm in this impromptu batting session alone. I'm probably gonna die if I don't do something really clever in the next thirty seconds. Okay, Jay-Jay, think clever thoughts…

I think I had an idea just now, but another frankly terrific blow to my head knocks it clear out the park. Intelligence is off the menu; let's try violence. I begin by dodging the incoming hit and driving my foot head-on into the nearest kneecap, shattering it. I then miss another closer of a swing to drive an elbow into the guy's ribcage. The wet snaps I hear in the aftermath, tell me I've broken a few. Another swing and a miss and that's three strikes. I use whatever energy or focus I have left to launch an all-out assault. The world is starting to spin, but I'll probably manage these assholes before I have to get off the roller-coaster. The three guys left standing aren't so tough without back-up. I dislocate the furthest one on the left's jaw before ducking a strike from his friend's tire-iron. Instead, the iron finds dislocated jaw's face and cracks his cheekbone and orbital socket.

Before tire-iron can understand what's happening, I've fired an elbow into his stomach to bring him lurching forward and then driven an elbow down on his collar bone, breaking it emphatically. Dislocated jaw is out cold and tire-iron is going into shock, so they're not playing any more. It only leaves steel base-ball bat, a man who resembles a gorilla more than a human being, to save the game for his team. He's winding up…he chops at my head with a wild swing…and…MISS! He tries again and another huge miss! When he attempts a third spin of the dice, I parry the strike and counter with three powerful hits of my own, courtesy of borrowing tire-iron's equipment. I start with the knees, move to the lower back and then finish him off with a herculean blow to the back of the head, mindful to miss the base of his skull. When his body falls to the concrete with a sickening crunch, I drop the tire-iron and stand with my arms aloft…_I am the champion, I am the champion, no time for losers, 'cause I am the champion…of the world._

"Suck it, bitches." I tell whoever's still conscious before staggering off, half-concussed towards the warehouse. I can still hear gunfire and defiant shouts; I guess the big guy needs back-up…typical. I don't know where he is or what condition, but let's be honest; Robin's a distraction in this scenario, not a participant. With that kind of in mind, I wander through the main door onto the warehouse floor. The gunfire stops abruptly, leaving only the echo of my footsteps to break the quiet.

"I took care of your all-star batting line-up outside. So who wants to try next?" I shout, wiping my mouth when I realize blood is seeping out. My knees want to buckle right now. I'm waiting to be diced with bullets, but none come. The only thing that drops down from above is Bruce. Before I can fall, he catches me.

"The bosses have been incapacitated." He informs me, like I care.

"Did I buy you enough time?"

"Yes, I was close enough so that it only took a three second window of opportunity to disable their number. Well-done."

"Whoopee…praise." I offer sarcastically before blacking-out.

"_He should be dead, Master Bruce."_

"_But he's not, Alfred. That much is immediately apparent. How bad is the damage?"_

"_Not severe enough to induce a coma, I'm happy to say. Given four weeks, perhaps six, he should be recovered enough to allow further patrols."_

"_He's remarkable, isn't he?"_

"_How many men did he defeat in this condition?"_

"_Five, all in possession of a highly muscular physique and competent fighting background. I doubt even I, in that state, would have bested five opponents in such close proximity without assistance."_

"_Yes, well, in future, Sir, do not leave him to fend for himself in such a dangerous environment. An additional hit could have resulted in permanent brain damage."_

"_We were separated; there was little I could have done to prevent it."_

"_I'm sure, Master Bruce. He is stable enough to be transported now."_

I wake up and the room swims into soft focus. Wowee, I took a hell of beating there if the room's swimming. It's daytime as far as I can tell and nobody's in the room with me. When I try to move, my hands feel like they're caked in sponge and aren't being all that helpful. I look over to my bedside table and see the glass of water. I reach over for it, concentrating hard to secure my fingers round it. Picking it up proves to be a really bad move as I manage to drop it on the floor. The smash of glass or crystal or whatever rich glasses are made out of alerts someone; a rush of footsteps is approaching the room. Al bursts in.

"_Master Jason! Are you alright, young man?"_ He asks in a voice that sounds hazy and distant to my ears. I gesture to the mess on the floor.

"Broke it." I manage to say. My mouth feels like it's filled with cotton. Definitely got the mother of all concussions here. Luckily I got the mother of all nursemaids here too in Al. The old man immediately lies me back down in bed and pulls the covers up to my chin.

"_You need rest, young man, plenty of it. Do not move."_ He tells me, smoothing my hair against my forehead in that way usually only mothers do. I don't mind; it's only Al.

"Feel rubbery." I tell him only to be told not to talk. He informs me he's off to get pills and more water. "No rush." I say despite his repeated insistence I clam-up. He disappears for a while and I think I fall asleep until he comes back. He lifts my head up for me and places the medicinal cocktail on my tongue. I swallow it without the water, but Al forces some down my throat anyway. "Bruce?" I ask when he's about to leave the room.

"_At work. He will return in a few hours. I shall inform him to come see you."_ Work huh? His kid's practically in a coma at home with some pretty bad injuries and he's gone to board meetings; that tells you everything you need to know about our personal relationship with one another in a freaking nut-shell. Whatever…I go back to sleep.

"_Jason?" _I wake up to find the room a little more high-definition than before. Bruce is also looming over me in his business suit, a black Armani number with a silver tie. I bought him the tie on Father's Day as a joke; this guy's the furthest thing from a father I know of. I want to offer him a wave, but still find my limbs lacking motivation.

"Al says no talking." I respond my mouth feeling less like a fudge factory and more like it's filled with watery porridge.

"I see. It's okay, we don't have to talk. Would you like to watch a movie?" This is weird. We don't have the same taste in films at all. This guy likes the Marx Brothers and I like The Three Stooges; we couldn't be more different. No thanks on movies, rich boy.

"Tom and Jerry." I offer to earn a frown.

"The cartoons?" He checks like he doesn't know what I'm talking about. He knows Tom and Jerry; he's not THAT old. I nod anyway.

So, for the next four hours, we watch Tom and Jerry cartoons. I used to watch them with my mom when I was a real little kid…before she had cancer. I used to love them…still do. I fall asleep a few times, but the cartoons are so short, it hardly even matters. Bruce stays the whole time. He doesn't say anything, but he's here at least.

"Damage?" I inquire after three-and-a-half hours of silence. Bruce doesn't spare any details.

"Aside from your concussion, you've sustained two broken knuckles, a split lip, three cracked ribs and aggravated your back. Alfred estimates a month or longer for full recovery."

"And the case?"

"Closed, largely in part to your efforts. As I said before well done."

"You can go. No need to stay." Seven words, both complete sentences…not bad. My head hurts like hell from the effort, but not bad.

"Do you want me to go?"

"No. But you do. I can tell." I need to calm down; I'm getting a little bit too lively for my own good. The big man sighs.

"Do you really believe I hold you in such low regard?"

"Yes." Okay…need to stop talking now before you just torch whatever crappy bridge is left between the two of you.

"Perhaps I should leave then." I feel him shifting his weight to get off the bed. My arm finally finds my brain's message and latches onto his wrist. It's a girly grip, but he knows if I could, I'd really squeeze down on it.

"Sorry. Pissed off you didn't help me." I offer to try and rescue the situation. All this conversing is making me dizzy. He stays on the bed. I feel his hand on top of mine, squeezing it. Score one for Jason.

"I regret ever placing you in such danger. If it could have been avoided or if I could have intervened sooner, I would have. Please believe me." He sounds sincere enough. I nod. He smiles at me. "All this talking taking it out of you?" I nod again. His hand runs through my hair in one of the most affectionate gestures I've had off him in months. "Then go to sleep. I'm sure you'll feel better tomorrow. We can have a proper conversation then if you like." I manage one more nod before closing my eyes. And then one more sentence before falling asleep.

"Bring booze."


	2. Chapter 2

**Flesh**

It's been ten days since I was mistaken for a ball machine by some enthusiastic baseball fans. My head is less messed-up and things are less trippy than before. This is apparently a good thing. Al says I'm recovering quicker than he expected. It's still not quick enough for me. I lie on my bed during the day and stare at the ceiling, wondering if I can will myself to heal faster. The concussion's almost gone, but it's left my hand-eye pretty fucked up. Yesterday I spent almost an hour crumpling up paper and tossing it in a wastepaper basket thirty feet away. Out of my hundred attempts, I only landed sixty-two; normally it's closer to ninety-five. I'm still getting dizzy from time to time too, especially if I'm trying to push myself. Where's the big guy in all this? He's at work or on patrol. At the moment I'm banned from any duties, including night watch on the cave systems. He's basically shut me out of the only activities that give my life any real meaning. What do I do instead? Well I spend a lot of time jacking-off on my bed and setting new highs for pulling it in a day. Today I counted eight, new high score. I need to hurry up and go out on patrol.

I wake up on day eleven of my forced convalescence, as Al calls it, hating life. I don't want to get up, but I desperately need a shit. If I could hold out I would, but I can't. So I get up and run to the bathroom. While I'm there, I take a shower, brush my teeth and reluctantly refrain from cutting my wrists. I get dressed and wander downstairs. It must be after midday because Al's making pasta, not scrambling eggs. Bruce will be at work…even though it's Sunday. I think about striking up a conversation with Al and then think better of it; cooking is like some kind of art form to him. So what now for the wounded boy soldier? I'm generous and make myself honey on toast and a glass of OJ before going and visiting my new best friend, daytime television. I hate TV so much. A daily viewing diet of fat people, fat women, survival stories, soap operas and animals doing stupid tricks has made me want to destroy broadcasting. If I have to lie here and watch Loose Women again, I will lose it. Thankfully, I'm too late for that treat. Instead, there's some documentary about a women who weighs as much as six of me and needs more than twelve-thousand calories a day to maintain it. Jeez, it's a fucking struggle for some people out there huh? I couldn't imagine the courage it takes to make it through the entire MacDonald's menu every day of the week; it must be horrific for her. I watch ten minutes and then turn it over.

What's next for my viewing pleasure? Some guy with one arm is talking about how he survived a shark attack.

"Luckily my arm got in the way." The guy tells the camera and, credit where credit is due, the cameraman manages to keep it steady even though you know he wants to burst out laughing like I am. I turn over again, finishing my toast through fits of laughter.

I work my way into a soap opera about people living in Texas, but lose interest when one of them gets capped in the foot and nearly dies as a consequence. I got shot in the stomach only six months ago; I didn't nearly die. For a couple of seconds I DID die, but you don't see me screaming like a four-year-old with a stubbed toe. I flip through channels and programmes for about an hour. Eventually, Al comes into the lounge with tuna pasta salad. He sets down the tray beside me and asks if I need anything else.

"Watch TV with me Al?" Yeah, I asked Al to watch bad TV with me. I'm that desperate.

"I'm afraid I deplore that idiot box, Master Jason."

"Watch a movie with me?"

"I really do have other duties to be attending to…"

"I am so fucking lonely right now Al. Please do something with me. Non-sexual would be preferable, but I'm open to other ideas." My joke is not met with the humour I was expecting. Al shoots me a sour look, but doesn't leave just yet. Is he actually considering?

"Perhaps we could watch something. What kind of genre do you like?"

"Anything with violence and hot women."

"I see. Star Wars?"

"Princess Leia is the only women in any of those films and she is NOT hot."

"Perhaps you should cite the name of a preferred actress for me to narrow my choices to?"

"Jodie Foster." Al raises an eyebrow at my choice; he doesn't think Jodie's hot either. Bruce is the same. I have a thing for Jodie Foster though. Not in _Taxi Driver_ with Bob DeNiro but in _Silence of the Lambs_ with Tony Hopkins. I love that opening sequence when she's training at FBI boot camp and covered in sweat. I've just thought of someone else. "Or Demi Moore. Have we got _Striptease_ or _G.I. Jane?_"

"Adolescence has really altered your perception of quality cinema, hasn't it?" Oh, you've got such a dry wit, Al, let me laugh at your outstanding jokes. I give him the short and sweet answer.

"Star Wars has always been shit. Look, if you really don't want to watch hot women take their clothes off, we can stick on _Lord of the Rings_ or something."

"Would you be partial to X-Men?"

"I don't know Al; I really don't get how they get their powers."

"It's either that or a screen classic. I was thinking _Gone with the Wind_ or _the Wizard_…."

"Do not finish that sentence, Al; I am warning you." Does he think I'm five or something? I kind of slouch back and sigh at the futility of this conversation; we might as well be on other planets. I'm about to give up and tell him to just leave when I think of the perfect movie to watch. "_A Fistful of Dollars_. Clint Eastwood as the Man with No Name." Al raises his eyebrow again, except this time there's a slight smile to go along with it.

"I had no idea your generation cared for spaghetti westerns. I must admit, Mr Eastwood is one of my favourite American film stars." The man considers for a moment. "I suppose I could watch one film with you."

One film somehow turns into four and kills eight hours of the day. Al disappeared briefly during _The Good, The Bad and The Ugly_ to check on dinner and Bruce wandered in from work during the first ten minutes of _For a Few Dollars More_, but, aside from those minor interruptions, I almost forgot how bored I was sat on my ass. Bruce decides to take his dinner in the lounge and sits next to me on the couch, essentially squashing me against the side with that gargantuan frame of his. Add to that about three feet for elbow room and I'm practically hanging over the edge. After about twenty minutes, he finally notices me doing an impression of a sardine crammed in a test tube and moves further down the couch. He's decent enough to apologize to me and I'm decent enough to roll my eyes in response. Just when the action starts to die down, he begins to inform me about his day at the office. I ignore most of it, but I do get the gist he was trying to improve Wayne Tech sales figures by cutting down on manufacturing cost. I'm glad he could make his company more greedy than normal; it gives hope to all of corporate America trying to wring the consumer dry of his wages.

"So what did you do today?" He asks me when he's had enough of his own voice. I shrug my shoulders.

"I jerked it like six times. Aside from that, nothing."

"And your hand injury didn't make it more difficult?" I wasn't expecting funny from him, not by a long way. I look at him for the first time since he arrived in the room. The big guy's smiling at me, clearly thinking he's making a big effort by not disapproving. Actually, now I think about it, I guess he is. I smile back. "So we are making progress I see. This is the first time you've smiled at me in two months."

"I'm notoriously hard to amuse."

"Something I think we share in common."

"Are you trying to bond with me?"

"Is that what you think is happening here?"

"Yeah, I do. Left it too late don't you think?"

"I've already apologized for putting you in such a dangerous position on that night. What more can I say?"

I don't give a fuck what he says. Words don't mean jack where I'm concerned. I'm not a good conversationalist and I don't pretend to be. Actions speak louder than words. Everyone knows that. That's why we tackle crime with our fists and feet rather than our mouths. Bruce still doesn't understand that when he speaks to me like this, all I hear is white noise. Whenever he bitches at me, whenever he tries to apologize to me, whenever he tries to speak to me at all, I really only hear half of what he's saying. It makes me wonder what he hears when I talk to him.

"It shouldn't have happened, Bruce. How 'tied up' could you have gotten in that warehouse?"

"I was physically restrained for almost twenty minutes."

"Why couldn't you just tell me that? That would make so much more sense given the context of things. I've spent the last week-and-a-half being unbelievably pissed at you for nothing. You're such a load of crap." This is when I think Bruce loses his mind. He reaches over and physically pulls me over to his side so that I find my head against his chest. You have got to be kidding me. He's trying affection to fix things between us, affection. It is, without doubt, the most pathetic strategy the big man's ever employed to curry my favour. I'm not six or desperate for a father. I stiffen immediately, but find my body doesn't like that so I have to soften. Now he'll think I like what he's doing. I open my mouth to say something to the contrary only for him to speak for me.

"I know Jason, I know. You don't like this, you don't want this and you just wish I left you alone. But let's just pretend that you live under my roof, are technically my child and, if you really didn't want this would've reacted far more violently than you did. Just relax and watch your movie."

"Since when have I ever been 'your child'? And in what universe would I ever want to be your child?" I counter only for his hand to run through my hair. I don't know why but I shut up immediately when I feel that contact. I just stop thinking for a few seconds and enjoy the sensation of being the centre of attention. Somewhere inside there's a part of me that wants this open display of love. There's also another part of me that wants to bite his hand off, but it's being quiet for once. So I do as he says and watch the movie, half-slumped in the big guy's arms. This isn't fixing our relationship and this isn't bringing us closer or any of that other stuff that needs to happen for this partnership to survive past next month, but it is nice. It's a brief little lull in all the fighting and tensions that won't be remembered tomorrow by either of us when everything goes back to routine, but it is nice. So I let myself enjoy this moment. If there had been more times like this in the past, more relaxing evenings watching TV and eating dinner in comfort together rather than apart, maybe we'd be better together. Maybe there'd be less fighting and arguments and defiance to be contending with. Maybe we'd be one big, happy family. Maybe. After this moment is over, because these times are so rare, I'm going to be bitter about it all, but right now I can enjoy it.

Jason Todd is happy to be in Bruce Wayne's company, what a novelty.


	3. Chapter 3

**Joke**

People don't say it to my face, but I'm going to die young. I take too many hits and too many risks to even consider seeing thirty. Nobody wants to be morose or downbeat on the whole thing, but they know death shadows me every night and I know it too. And I'm fine knowing that. I don't want to live forever. I don't want to die old and alone in some care home in Florida; I want to go out in a blaze of glory as a guy in his prime. That's the best ending I can expect for myself. I want to be remembered for sacrificing my life in the name of others. If they could put that line on my headstone, that'd be cool. Why am I talking about this stuff as a sixteen-year-old? The end's coming. I can feel it whispering in the back of my head, saying that my time's nearly up. I tell it to shut up and let me work. That's right; after four weeks and three days, Jason Todd is back in the saddle and ready to kick ass all over again as Robin, the only teenage sidekick worth seeing this year! Enough about that though, there's something way more interesting to look in to…

Joker's loose again. After months of dealing with drug dealers, thieves, idiots and really ugly gangbangers, we've finally got someone interesting to stop. This guy is seriously twisted like some partially melted helter-skelter ride; he killed eight people in making his escape this time, surprisingly low numbers if we're just going by statistics. This time there was no laughing gas, just some old-fashioned fisticuffs. Nobody gives this maniac credit for it, but he's pretty handy in a fight. Reviewing security footage from his breakout shows him using boxing, jujitsu, Krav manga and reiki to overcome his opponents. It's brutal stuff, but pretty effective. He laughs throughout the whole tape, that horrible clownish laughter that sends chills up and down your spine. It used to freak me out when I was younger, now I can stand it, barely. The big guy already knows he's got something big planned, something lethal. But it's been less than twenty-fours since his exit from the nuthouse so he's still gathering resources for his 'prank'. We've probably got less than forty-eight hours to take him down or a lot of innocent people are going to take a permanent vacation in the clouds. Like I said, I don't mind dying if it's for something. Joker kills people for nothing, absolutely nothing, not even his own amusement. To me, that's the real joke here.

When Joker's free, Bruce goes into overdrive to catch him. In the past three hours, we've scouted eighteen of his known hideouts around the city and interrogated thirty of his most alive former henchmen for information. The result of this hell-bent drive for justice? Nada. We've got nothing to work with. So we press on. After another three hours of touring the dregs and dark recesses of Gotham, we still have nothing. The big man is getting frustrated by our lack of progress. Usually by this point he has an inkling of what's about to happen, something to hang a theory on, but not this time.

"You wanna know what I think, Boss?" I inquire as we stand atop of Gotham City Cathedral close to four in the morning. He sighs lethargically.

"What do you think, Robin?"

"What if we're going about this the wrong way?" He glares at me as if I've just spat in his face. I think he believes I'm being condescending towards him. His reply cements this.

"The Joker has escaped incarceration a total of fifty-six times over an eight-year period. He always leaves clues and I have always found him through these methods; how could I possibly be going about this the wrong way?" The big guy is practically snapping at me. He has eyes for nothing but the lunatic's head. Bruce has got his nose pressed up so far against this situation that he can't see the wood for the trees. So yours truly has to be the voice of REASON. It's ridiculous that a teenager with anger issues has to be the logical one in a partnership with a man whose brain is rumoured to be a supercomputer, but there you are. I counter his argument passively enough.

"Well, since when is he predictable? You keep saying there's no pattern to his methods or logic to his targets; who's to say that he won't change his M.O on the fifty-seventh time?" Bruce's eyes narrow and his jaw clenches at my suggestion, but he is listening. God, he's desperate.

"What do you suggest?"

"Treat him like a sane criminal. What would they do after breaking out of jail?"

"They'd find a safe house which is precisely what we've been…"

"We've been looking at amusement parks and ice-cream factories; would a sane criminal hide out in such an attention-drawing locale?"

"This isn't a sane…"

"We're pretending he is, THIS time. So where would he hide?" Even though I can't see them through his white eyelets, I know the big man has just rolled his eyes at my paint by number reasoning process. He answers anyway.

"Amongst friends, but…"

"He has no friends, I get it, but can he BUY them?" Bruce frowns.

"Only fools would side with a madman like him."

"You mean GREEDY fools, right? Who do we know who's a greedy fool?" Yes, this is Jason Todd hinting to The Batman, the world's greatest detective. Now it's condescending, but he needs it; things are getting too cloudy in his head right now; he needs to think straight. It takes him less than two seconds to give the correct response.

"Cobblepot." Ding, ding, winner at the carnival! The Penguin's always been more crooked businessman than outright nutcase, although he's not far from it. If anyone's blinded enough by money to harbour the world's worst comedian, it's Happy Feet. So, let's get the ball rolling now we've found it.

"So what's his price for sanctuary?" I say.

"In the area of twenty million dollars."

"Does Joker have access to that kind of cash?"

"Unfortunately yes."

"So?" We look at one another for long seconds in deathly silence. Somewhere underneath the grim façade and stony manner, Bruce wants to thank me for the pointer. But he says nothing but what I expected him to.

"We'll pay a visit to the Iceberg Lounge."

Ornithology, the study of birds, is a pretty dumb hobby. My name being Robin does not, as everyone seems to believe, relate to the dumpy, red-chested bird. It's meant to be a tribute to Robin Hood, because of the spirit in which it is worn. Therefore, I have no attachment to any of those stupid, winged rats. It makes it a hell of a lot easier to smack them out of the way when fat boy sends them to attack. As usual, we drop from the skylight above the lounge, something we try do every fortnight to keep Cobblepot honest. He reels off the usual spiel of 'I'm a legitimate businessman', 'you have no right to trespass on private property', 'you're nothing but a despicable cur on society' and 'I will see to it you pay for any damages'. Unfortunately, it's kinda hard to hear him shriek over the sound of sending his heavies through glass tables and into upmarket fountains while clubbing endangered birds to the ground. Believe it or not, compared to our usual crowd, this is pretty restrained behaviour on our part. It takes maybe five minutes and roughly fifteen guys for him to realize negotiation is his only option. So we all waddle over to his office and have a friendly chat.

"You think I'd shelter that madman?" Penguin splutters as the Boss holds him nearly a foot off the ground so their faces are level. He growls.

"For the right price, you'd shelter every war criminal in the known world. Tell us where he is or we'll burn your funds."

"That would be arson, Sir!" The birdman squawks. Bruce spins him round and slams him hard against the wall.

"That doesn't change how this scenario will play out if you don't give him up."

"But I don't know WHERE he is!"

"Robin?"

I begin to pile almost thirty million dollars taken from Cobblepot's personal safe in the middle of the floor and take out an emergency flare from my utility belt. The big man makes certain our stupid companion can see this clearly.

"In exactly ten seconds, I will tell my partner to ignite the flare and drop it in the centre of that pile. Unless you tell me where he is, everything you enjoy is about to come to an end." Pengy's eyes are getting awfully big.

"But I keep telling you…"

"Five seconds."

"I don't…"

"Four seconds."

"Batman, I really…"

"Three seconds."

"For the love of…"

"Two seconds." I light the flare. Fat boy watches it intently. He stops blinking. He stops talking. Bruce carries on.

"One second." Penguin looks like a rabbit in headlights as his last second dies away. I move the flare to the top of the pile, singeing the bills on top. He shouts for me to stop.

"He's at one of my old hideouts! He's at the Gotham observatory! Stop what you're doing for the love of God, I need that money!" The big guy's lip curls into a satisfied smile. He casually drops Cobblepot on his ass, obviously relishing the thud and accompanying howl of pain. I shake the flare around in my hand, silently asking whether or not to do it anyway. Bruce shakes his head. I extinguish the flare and replace it in my belt.

"You'd think with all that money you'd be able to afford a gym membership." I remark, kicking the pile over before exiting along with my partner.

It takes only minutes for us to get in the car and speed off for the observatory. I turn over a possibility in my mind.

"Think he was lying?" I ask. The big man's answer is as curt as it gets.

"No."

"How can you be sure? The man's more like a toad than a penguin most of the time."

"Because I could see it in his eyes." Really? That's a pretty Hollywood-style line to lay down, but I suppose a guy like Bruce can pull it off. How many scumbags has he interrogated? Probably a lot more than I ever will so I'll give it to him. I shrug my shoulders.

"So, we got a plan or is this just a hit and hope situation?"

"There's no guarantee he'll be there on our arrival. The first objective is reconnaissance as always. If we're presented with viable targets, we'll jump in. If nothing presents itself, we'll stake out the location and observe."

"Roger that." I notice the big guy is periodically staring at me. Maybe it's my less than abrasive attitude to the situation or maybe it's the fact I haven't smirked or sneered at him the whole night. Mainly though, I hope it's just because he thinks I'm doing a good job tonight, that I'm really trying to help him out the best way I can. He says nothing more to me and I don't bother speaking either. I just want this case wrapped up inside of two hours; I'm so freaking tired.

We're at the observatory before five-thirty. Everything's quiet. That's actually a bad sign. The quieter things are, the more chance there is that something sinister and unpleasant is waiting to grab us. We're both cautious leaving the car and stick close in traversing the surrounding grounds, not straying from the shadows. This is seriously creepy. I spot a sentry first, up on the observatory's roof. He's got NVGs, meaning we have to move quickly without being seen. Sentries mean there's something inside worth guarding. Or maybe it's _someone_ worth guarding. Either way, this is getting interesting. Bruce switches to thermal imaging. He signals to me that there are eight guards in the area, all armed with some kind of weapon system and radio link. He counts only two with NVG capabilities, making them our primary targets. By now we've gotten pressed against the north wall and are only looking for purchase to higher ground. Luckily Gotham's architects have a weird fetish for gargoyles; the damn things are on every major building in the city, including this dusty relic. So we fire grappling hooks and go straight up.

We're now situated just below the sentry I spotted. Instead of risking being seen by his buddy, Bruce is waiting for him to wander closer to the railing surrounding the roof. While he does that, I scope for the other NVG badass. The other one's posted on the opposite side of the roof and doesn't look like his area of concern is anywhere near us. I give the big guy the nod for the takedown. Bruce reaches up and noiselessly dispatches the sentry, relieving him of the goggles and handing them to me. The big man takes the radio link and hacks into their audio frequency to keep him posted on their progress. The remaining seven guards need to be handled logically. That means NVG scumbag two needs to go next, followed by the ground troops. He leaves that one to me.

This is standard sneak attack stuff. First I creep up on the target, keeping low to the ground and out of his immediate field of vision. When I'm less than three feet away, I slowly stand up and wait. When he turns to meet my gaze, I pounce forward and attack the windpipe with a simple jab to silence any chance at vocal announcement, a la Bruce. Next, I relieve him of his weapon system, a sub-automatic rifle with a telescopic-mounted sight by crushing his right index or 'trigger' finger. Since he's now weapon less and unable to cry out, the only thing left is to put him to sleep. A solid uppercut is enough for lights out. Voila, no more night-vision capabilities. I spot Bruce dispatching guys on the ground without any false steps. Four of them get standard nerve pinches from his Vulcan repertoire of manoeuvres while the remaining two are lucky enough to be put down with one hit each. Moments after finishing off his last man, the big guy is back on the roof.

Outside perimeter secured. Now we move on to the inside of the building. Bruce's thermal imaging again comes in handy. He scouts thirty or so individuals inside, eight of them isolated from the others. They're either hostages or possibly The Joker and his armed escort. The situation is getting sticky. I like it.

"Subtle reconnaissance, understood?" The Boss tells me once we're inside. It's time to divide and conquer. Bruce is investigating the isolated group; I get the leftovers. I nod my head.

"Take a peek and report back, gotcha."

The observatory is in a pretty bad way at the moment. Multiple wars with GCPD has left Penguin's favourite battleground a mess of crumbling brickwork and broken displays. I doubt the telescope even works anymore. The only positive thing about this place is the air vent system being wholly intact. I'm buff, but not that buff that I can't fit in the ventilation system. So I get inside and begin to crawl like a pro. There's plenty of lewd jokes to be told about teenage boys crawling around in little more than their underwear, but it's not really the time for that. I need to get eyes on target. I hear the laughter first and know it's me with the jackpot and the boss man with the spoils. Joker's in my area, front and centre of house. When the laughter's pretty much right below me, I take a look out the grill and see him decked out in his usual purple suit and yellow shirt. He's giving orders to the group of men surrounding him.

"But the REAL kicker of that one was the fact the poor girl had died BEFORE I put her in the grinder! The joke was on me that time, lemme tell ya!" I must've caught the tail end of that anecdote because he goes off on a tangent, cackling wildly at his own punch line before composing himself. "Anyhoo, because I've been out of day care for almost a whole day, the chance that Spooky ears and his half-cocked bird-like sidekick are closing in on us is a very likely possibility. In fact, they might even already BE here as we speak! Now as exciting as that may sound, it also means there's a good chance the dynamic do-gooders will try to curtail my plans before I get started. Since that would spoil the surprise I have planned, the best thing to do is kill the hostages, blow up the building and amscray to somewhere else. So let's start cleaning up, huh fellas?" Joker claps his hands together briskly, "Chop, chop, time's a wastin'!"

Let me just say, I have been CLEAN on my diet recently, no cheating whatsoever. The fact that when I went to radio my partner the air vent chose to collapse from under me was NOT my fault. I hit the ground hard, landing about a foot from the Joker's feet. There's a horrible, long silence while the assembled mass stare at me in bewilderment. The clown grins at me. At a moment like this, I can only say one thing and it just rolls off my tongue and echoes round the room, perfectly summing up my appraisal of the situation.

"Fuck."


	4. Chapter 4

**Punch Line**

Fuck. This has gone south on me in a big way. I'm on my ass in the middle of a circle two thugs and one clown deep. Cover's blown. Element of surprise is gone. And, if this stuff wasn't bad enough, my ass really hurts from the fifteen-foot drop to concrete. Fuck's sake, Jay-Jay; you really are a joke. Joker looks amused by the whole situation; grinning like he's got an endless supply of teeth he's desperate to show everyone.

"That fat bird tattled on me, ALREADY?" The clown says before tutting in something like disappointment, even though his face remains the same. "I can't say I'm shocked, but really?" Joker pulls out a pocket watch and shakes his head, "I've been free less than EIGHTEEN hours! Give a man a chance!" Nobody's made a move to grab me yet and my hands are quicker than their eyes. I detonate the smoke pellets and dive through a scumbag's legs, giving him a nutcracker on the way out as the smoke thickens. Okay, you fucked up, Mr Todd. Accept it and move on. Bruce is probably in the midst of rescuing the hostages so I need to buy him some time. So it's gonna have to be thirty very ugly criminals and a homicidal clown versus a sixteen-year-old boy in a Halloween costume. Why do I never get the easy jobs? Just shut up and concentrate. Just put them down as hard and fast as you can.

"Ten of you go find the Bat! The rest take down the brat!" I hear Joker shout above the noise and confusion. Yeah, good luck finding an exit in this crap; everybody's running blind because of the smoke…except me. The NVGs I swiped filter the smoke and make this open season. Still, as I begin to cut them down, I'm not taking any chances. I slip on my set of brass knuckles from the belt and make every blow count. Bruce hates me carrying these bad boys on me during patrol. He says the Kevlar plating in my gloves should be a sufficient enough edge over the opponent, but sometimes it's not that simple. Sometimes they like it. Sometimes I can't generate enough power to put them down. Sometimes they just hit harder. These cancel out those possibilities. Within four minutes I must've cracked over thirty ribs and broken fifteen. The numbers soon tumble down. When the smoke clears, I count a slack handful of standing stooges, maybe four. I've put down almost twenty. Joker's nowhere to be seen. I'm not surprised. The guy's insane, not stupid. Forget him; the big man needs my help. Let's go.

I negotiate my way through the final four goons, knocking out a combined twelve teeth, and head for the rear of the observatory. Rescuing that situation took me almost ten minutes and that was just to save my ass; Bruce is going to rip me apart for letting the Joker run and that'll be the least of my troubles if the guys Joker sent off have hurt or killed some of the hostages. I start sprinting. I reach the holding room less than fifteen seconds later. When I burst through the barricade, I find a scene I've seen a million times before; Bruce stood amongst fallen thugs and the hostages cowering safely in the corner. His eyes meet mine immediately and I feel my stomach churn. He isn't happy, not by a long way. His first words are too calm not to be suppressing intense anger.

"The Joker's location?"

"I don't know." He glares at me and I see his jaw clench at this revelation. I try not to wince. Everything was going so well between us recently…He looks away.

"It is safe to assume he has fled this location in favour of somewhere more discreet. We will resume tracking his whereabouts after dealing with these hostages. Assist me."

He doesn't say anything else to me for the next half-hour. After freeing the hostages, some construction workers contracted to begin restoration on the building, the GCPD are called and Gordon himself shows up. I hang back while Bruce briefs the commissioner on the situation and when the two compare strategies. I don't think I'm welcome at the moment. Eventually, we leave and get back in the car.

"Let me begin." The big man says as we drive back to the metropolitan area, "I am angry and disappointed with your performance. However, in light of recent events, I will give you the chance to explain yourself." This is bizarre. Bruce isn't interested in excuses no matter how good or credible they are. He doesn't tolerate failure if he has constructed the plan. It is never his fault things go wrong; it's always mine. That's the way it's always been. But now, for no reason, he's gifting me a way out of a long lecture and heavy punishment. I shake my head.

"The section of the air vent I was watching from gave way. There wasn't any warning it was going to happen. I fell and couldn't regain my balance. Everything just went south from there."

"Are you injured from your fall?"

"My ass is just a little bruised." He nods.

"I see. We will overlook your mistake on this occasion. Please try to consider potential hazards before they occur." That's it. For once, Bruce pretends to be somebody else, somebody _less_ perfect and lets the matter go. I think he's still feeling guilty over what happened with those baseball flunkies. I mean, I haven't exactly been much better than usual with him, just less snarky. Then there was that weird hour where he practically held me in his arms on the couch and we watched a movie. That was definitely motivated by guilt. Yeah, he's still ashamed over what he let happen to me, even though he was tied up and probably smacked around a little himself. I doubt it'll last past tonight, his feeling sorry for me, but at least it's been put to good use. I should thank him for being lenient, but I won't, not my style. So I just nod my head in agreement.

"Okay. What now, Boss?"

"Joker's initial plan for Gotham intended the use of the observatory as a base of operations. Where the hostages were situated, I found a large surplus of chemical and biological agents, many of them common ingredients in his airborne toxins and gases. There was also a wealth of scientific equipment partially installed in the basement. I would surmise that he planned to introduce a toxin to Gotham with the purpose of poisoning the population. Having secured the bulk of his materials, I imagine he will need time to rethink his strategy and regroup. We probably have a time frame of less than forty-eight hours before he strikes. The best course of action presently is to return home and begin the search again based on new information." So he's clearly been paying more attention to things than me; I didn't notice any chemical vats during my stroll through the building. But it sounds like Bruce is happy with how things have developed; now that Joker's main resources have been secured by GCPD, the big guy knows the secondary threat can't be as large. Hopefully that means he'll be less on edge for the next few hours and I can go to bed.

"Can I expect an easy morning, Sir?" Al inquires after meeting our arrival in the cave. The old guy's dressed in his servant get-up, complete with bow tie and kid gloves; it must be after eight in the morning now if Al's dressed this formally. Bruce dispenses with his cowl, handing it to Al as he walks past.

"I am going to need you to monitor communications on all police frequencies within the city for the next four hours and alert me the moment any conversation or information pertains to the Joker or his whereabouts."

"Am I to take it then that you will be sleeping until at least midday, Master Bruce?"

"That is the gist of what I just said, Alfred, yes."

"And what of Master Jason?"

"I'm gonna sleep until I at least get one layer of bedsores, Al. Don't wait up." I inform them both when walking towards the staircase. I shed the majority of my uniform when I got out the car. As I begin ascending the stairs, the only thing I'm wearing is my underwear. Bruce says not to wear the uniforms in the house, so I'm doing as he says. If I had it my way though, I wouldn't even be wearing my underwear right now; fighting my way through around fifty thugs and scumbags has created enough sweat to make it look like I swamped them like a five-year-old and are just as uncomfortable to wear.

"I need you down here by five this afternoon, Jason. You've got nine hours." Bruce calls to me when I'm almost at the top. Normally, I'd ignore him completely because I'm crazy tired and aren't in the mood for more, but seeing as he was so cool with me on patrol, I give him a reply.

"I'll make sure to set my alarm." I shout back before disappearing from view. I go straight to my room, take a quick shower to rinse the stench of stale sweat and other people's blood off my skin and then do an impression of someone in a coma for the foreseeable future. I don't dream properly. I just have snatches of people and places, maybe see a few colours, but that's all I get. That'll be the meds Al's got me on; they really mess up my REM cycles so I don't get much deep sleep. It seems like I've only just gone under when I get woken up.

"_Master Jason?"_

I open my eyes to find Al right in my face. "Please don't kiss me, Al, not in the mood for romance." I offer whilst reluctantly sitting up.

"There are desert-dwelling lizards I would rather press my lips against than you, Master Jason so I shouldn't worry. Follow my finger." I keep forgetting I've only been back in the game for a couple of days; before that I was still recovering from a serious concussion. Al's still worried about residual damage and aftereffects. So I follow his finger with my eyes. He asks me to recite some phrases he told me to learn in order to test my memory. I do it perfectly. He begins checking how my other injuries are healing. My ribs are fine now and, judging from my performance in the observatory, so is my back. I keep telling him this, but he won't listen. Sometimes I think he just likes to mother me. Sometimes I like him to do that too.

"What time is it?" I ask as he finishes examining my ribs.

"Three-forty-eight in the afternoon, Sir. Are you ready to get up now?" Al says handing me what I pray to god is a final round of medication. I swallow the pills in one gulp and shrug my shoulders.

"Do I have a choice?"

"No, Sir. I need to change your bed linen and begin emptying your laundry basket. Kindly get up." He looks at me expectantly.

"I am naked, you know Al. If you want me gone, could you at least pass me some underwear?"

"If only I could, Master Jason. You have not brought your laundry down for washing in thirteen days and have subsequently missed three washes. Because of this, you have no underwear left to put on." Wow. I'm pretty sure I own like at least twenty pairs of underwear; how the hell could I have possibly…oh, right, the workouts. I sweat like a fat girl at a cake shop when I really turn on the heat in the gym. That's just great. I'm ward to a _billionaire_ and I have NO clean underwear to put on. Poor, little rich boy.

"Why didn't you just tell me to?"

"Prior to two days ago, you had not really left your room in almost a week; I am not particularly fond of disturbing teenage boys with idle hands." I roll my eyes at that thinly veiled reference to jacking it. Does he think I'm that addicted to it?

"You didn't disturb me because you thought I was masturbating non-stop for a week? How would that even be physically possible?"

"I dare not even comment on such a subject, Sir. Suffice to say, if you wanted to achieve such a thing, I have no doubt you would find a way." Funny guy. I think it's unfair to duel wisecracks with a groggy, teenage superhero when you're a perennially awake and uber-witty butler, but I suppose I have to try anyway.

"In that case, please hand me my sweat pants, Al. That is unless you want to conduct an impromptu examination of my bruised buttocks when I stand up." Al's turn to roll his eyes.

"An enticing offer, Master Jason, but I feel sweat pants would be a better option." Al throws me the pants from across the room. I catch them without any trouble and slip them on under the sheets. I think I managed to win that one; the old guy's last line was okay, but bordering on weak. Jason Todd still holds the lead. I get out of bed. This is the first time my ass has been sore on the outside as opposed to the other way round. It's almost as painful as I attempt to walk. I catch Al watching me shuffle like a geriatric playing soccer and wave away the look of concern on his face.

"They didn't rape me, Al, okay? I just seriously bruised the damn thing. How long until these painkillers kick in?"

"Perhaps twenty minutes." I can handle another twenty minutes of feeling like my cheeks are grinding against each other like misshapen stones. It's not like I've never experienced this agony before. So I change the subject.

"You or Bruce find him yet?"

"Not as of yet, Sir. Master Bruce has begun to compile a credible list of properties that lunatic could have taken up residence in though. He feels close to a breakthrough."

"I'll go pay him a visit."

"Perhaps I should check your posterior, Sir. There is a chance I could administer some sort of treatment to ease the pain." Is he setting me up for a punch line here? Judging from his expression he hasn't realized how easy my retort is going to be with that kind of ammunition. I narrow my eyes.

"Are you going to kiss it better, Al?" The old man sighs lethargically before signalling for me to go and leave him to his duties. I win again. After grabbing some cheap protein in two boiled eggs and half a tin of baked beans, I grab a glass of water and wander down into the cave. Al's prediction was right on the mark, my ass feels kind of numb now and I can walk normally. Good, good. I find Bruce in his typical detective pose, sat in his chair, hunched over the screen with a single hand on his chin as if in thought. He's still dressed in his pyjamas and dressing gown combo. Next to the touch pad keyboard is an empty mug that had to be filled with black coffee. He greets my arrival with the briefest of glances.

"Good morning to you too." I say to open a dialogue whilst sitting down in the chair beside his.

"It's the afternoon, Jason. How did you sleep?"

"Fine. I ran out of underwear this morning."

"Really?" He sounds wholly uninterested in the matter. "Joker is going to announce his plan soon. He always makes a public spectacle out of the event. I believe he plans to use the GCN tower to broadcast a video message."

"How do you know that?"

"Because I've been deliberately blocking access to the tower's relay system. So far, I have only allowed the proper broadcast signals to be transmitted due to verified ident numbers. There have already three separate exterior test messages sent to the tower to test its connectivity. None of them were coded with ident numbers. I managed to trace it to a tower in The Bowery, a brownstone building once owned by The Penguin. When they try to transmit something, I plan to reroute it to this terminal and play the video privately."

"And you don't think it would be better to just assault the building and destroy him before anything bad can happen?"

"It is only a broadcast; there is no way of saying whether or not the main threat will be present or not. We must be patient."

"What about catching this psycho? I thought you were trying to bring him down fast. What's changed?"

"He's been off our radar for almost twelve hours; whatever he's planning is up and running. What remains is how long he is going to give us to stop him." I frown.

"Who says he _wants_ us to stop him this time?"

"He only keeps trying because of me. He needs me to play his games otherwise he has no fun and considers the whole thing to be pointless." I can see that. I take a sip of my water.

"So, sit here and wait?"

"Yes. I suggest you put on a sweater of some kind." I glance down at my bare chest, think about going back up to the house to retrieve a jacket or something and then settle on a better idea.

"Can I wear your dressing gown?" I know I'm pushing my luck here, especially given what restraint he exercised last night with me screwing up, but I think he'll cave.

"No." He's just playing to type. I try again.

"I know you're wearing a vest and pyjama top; just give me your dressing gown. It's lightweight anyway. Big guy like you won't miss it." He seems to consider the argument before finally looking at me for the first time since I came down here.

"You've taken a shower, yes?" I scoff at the insinuation.

"Not a street kid anymore, rich boy; just fork over the gown please." I stretch out my hand and wiggle my fingers at him. He does nothing for a moment. Then takes off his dressing gown. He's wearing exactly what I said he would be: a vest and pyjama top. He places it in my hand.

"You'd better quit being nice to me, Bruce; I might start getting used to it." I comment, sticking on the gown already knowing it's way too big for my size frame. His eyes are still on me as he offers a reply.

"We've had our problems. And I know I am over critical of your mistakes and that this often causes a rift between us. I demand things of you I have no right to expect. And I apologize for that, I sincerely do. But I believe my biggest failing, both as a parent and a mentor is neglecting to see how much you give for the mission. Your beating six weeks ago and the odds you faced in the observatory last night are testament to your commitment to what we do and how far we should take it. I am happy and very proud to count you as my partner and ally, but I would much rather we were friends as well." It's everything prophetic speeches should be: powerful, refined and laced with humility. Someone else in my position would accept it as a heartfelt apology and forgive him for past grievances. But they're not in my position, I am. Jason Todd isn't stupid. I want to be loved, for sure, but by someone who appreciates me. So I'm not afraid to bite at the olive branch being swung.

"You're going to have to try really hard if you want my friendship now, Bruce. It's the one thing that is never for sale with me, not for any price."

"All I want is a chance to prove to you we don't need to raise our voices to be taken seriously."

"Fine with me. Go the rest of this investigation without trying to tear me a new one and we've got a shot." The big man frowns at my conditions but nods regardless.

"Jason, I…"

"GOOD AFTERNOON, GOTHAM! JOKER HERE WITH AN IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT FOR YOU, THE PEOPLE!"


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: Here is Part One of Curtain Call. The second part will be available from close of play tomorrow. Apologies for the format, but I am struggling with the final five hundred words of this story arc and require more time to tailor it properly before publication. Jason and Bruce argue the merits of one plan against another. Enjoy.**

**Curtain Call**

Way back when I was that homeless kid that decent people tried to ignore, I snuck into a comedy club on the edge of Crime Alley to shelter from the rain. And I watched this comedian fall flat in front of about two hundred people. And the worse thing about the whole situation for this poor smuck was that nobody in the audience said a word. They didn't jeer or boo or even turn and whisper to each other; they just silently stared at him. After five minutes of bone yard like quiet, the curtain mercifully came down in front of this guy and only then did the relaxed atmosphere return to the club. Behind the curtain, you could hear him crying. Before that night, I thought the worse thing to hurt someone with was some seriously blue language or just hitting them until they bled. But it's not. The worse thing to hurt someone with is silence. Because unlike praise or criticism, silence tells you nothing. Silence gives you nothing either, but it can eat you in terms of confidence and belief. For a while after that night in the club, I flirted with the idea of the silent treatment being worse than any other punishment, but sort of in two minds about there being worse things out there than someone not talking to you. Then I met Bruce and I was never unsure again. His silence, both at work and in life, absolutely kills me.

That's why I'm glad for guys like The Joker. The man is a homicidal maniac with the worst repertoire of jokes in the universe, but at least he's vocal. At least he always tells you what he thinks, even if you don't want to hear it, about everything drifting through his head. Take his 'master' plan for example; he publicly announced he intends to kill one person for every man, woman and child who ever insulted him. He counts that total at a generously low three-hundred thousand, four-hundred-and twenty-seven. So, the next question is how will he do it? And he tells you. Joker has possession of an atomic bomb. He says that, unless Batman can stop him, he'll activate the bomb which will have a yield large enough to cover a six-mile radius, taking out almost all of The Narrows and Park Row. Somehow, the clown's calculated that those two areas hold the exact number of people he wants to kill, although I'm pretty sure he'll be down a junkie or two by ten tonight. So, big mouth has given us the how, the why but not the when. Oh wait, yeah he has. We've got until midday tomorrow to find him and the bomb and deactivate it. That's roughly twenty hours.

Right now, I think laughing boy is going to expect the whole of Gotham to be in uproar and running around like headless chickens thinking about a Chernobyl-style disaster. He wants newspaper headlines to read END OF THE WORLD and other ridiculous predictions so he can roll around on the floor, clutching his sides. But, of course none of those scenarios are playing out right this second. Bruce has successfully blocked the transmission from getting to mainstream receivers in people's homes; right now everybody's still watching America's Got Talent, hoping the fat girl warbling for the judges either falls off the stage or simply goes through it. Only I and the big guy have seen Joker's Nuclear Playtime Disaster and I want my money back. I just did not like the presenter; the guy was trying way too hard to be funny.

Bruce is in contact with Gordon and his bomb disposal team in minutes and supplying them with a huge list of potential bomb sites that could conceivably kill that many people. He tells the commissioner to concentrate on finding the bomb because their best chance is disarming it, not reasoning with Joker. Meanwhile, Batman and Robin are going to try and reason with The Joker. Figures.

"So what we gonna do?" I ask still sat in the chair wearing Bruce's dressing gown.

"Finding a nuclear bomb should be child's play if you have a Geiger counter. There are only three sites in the whole city where such an explosive could avoid attention and be within range to eliminate the intended targets." He gestures at me with his hand. I give him a hard stare; he wants _me_ to tell _him_ the three possible sites. If my training for this crazy job didn't include a three-week course in the rudiments of nuclear physics and the industrial history in Gotham's power sources (don't ask how, but I got ninety-five per cent on the final exam), I wouldn't be rolling my eyes right now. I sigh before reeling off some applied knowledge.

"Well it's not the Industrial District; that's five miles east of Park Row. And it can't be the disused reactor because that's out of range completely. So it has to be somewhere in Amusement Mile." Bruce nods once before gesturing again.

"Explain." I slouch back in the chair and puff out my cheeks. I don't need my training to explain this gem; being a street kid surprisingly gives you the same insight, just with a little more colour. I begin.

"Storage facility for nuclear materials built back in the fifties still has a stupidly high radiation level; there was a rumour in Crime Alley that if you got too close your balls began to glow in the dark. That's why the whole stretch is pretty much abandoned now. If you wanted to hide a nuclear bomb, you'd want to put it there, right next door to Park Row." The big man looks satisfied with my answer. He leans back in his chair too before finishing the theory work.

"And the resulting blast wave would pass through The Narrows on its way to the docks." I shrug my shoulders.

"So why didn't you just tell Gordon to start his search there?"

"Because I want to attempt disarming the device first, before we get them involved." Bruce wants to try deactivating an atomic death-trap by burying his fingers in wires and plucking them out. Who needs professionals anyway? I mean, why bother having amateur bomb disposal experts if you won't give them a big job every now and then? And I bet he won't be doing it in a protective suit like other people would, no; he'll be disarming a nuclear bomb dressed as a bat. Should I stick my hand up and ask whether he wants a boy in pixie shorts as a witness?

"Please don't tell me you want me to watch when you do that."

"I need you to scout the area for dangers and deal with them before they reach me."

"In the vaporizing zone of a nuclear explosion."

"Jason…"

"Bite me. Just leave it to the professionals, Bruce."

"They won't be able to stop him. Since he arrived here, they have always relied on us to take him down."

"We're not talking about Joker; we're talking about a very lethal bomb and being at the epicentre of the fucking thing. Let them try. You're only one man. They deal with the device and we try to stop the maniac at the source. Working with Gordon is supposed to mean a partnership. You know I'm right. This is how the world is supposed to work. So let's give Gordon the device's most likely location and concentrate on Joker's hideout. You said the broadcast originated from The Bowery, a brownstone building. "

"Why is it so important I not handle this matter personally?"

"Because it's stupid. That's why; because it's stupid. Do it my way. Let's pretend we're friends already and trust each other's judgement. Your idea is stupid and pointless. My idea is logically sound and offers a heroic finish that doesn't involve being splattered all over the city. Let's pretend we both know which one is better and just go with mine. Okay?" Bruce looks astonished by what I just said, but not enough to be lost for words unfortunately. He rediscovers his hard stare.

"Sometimes I truly wonder what must go on in your head. For a sixteen-year-old boy to talk down to someone who is not only almost two decades older than him, but also his mentor, partner and surrogate father is astounding. You honestly believe you know best, don't you?" I sigh lethargically.

"Don't make this into an ego trip."

"Why not?"

"Because you'll lose." This time the big man is rendered totally mute. I stare at him hard and hold his gaze without blinking. For once, he relents first and turns away. He calls Gordon again and gives the location of the bomb, recommending he gets the bomb disposal team to the location within the next twenty minutes and cordons off and evacuates a six-mile radius of the device. This means I've won. He's not going to say anything sporting like that having been knocked off his pedestal, but I know I've won. "So now what's our plan, Boss man?"

"We suit up and track down The Joker."


	6. Chapter 6

**Curtain Call 2**

Let me start by saying wow. I mean, I knew Gotham's criminal population has the combined IQ of a squashed apricot left out in the sun, but big props to this proof of stupidity. We get to this brownstone building around seven and what do we find waiting for us? Only The Joker and all his minions guarding what can only be described as every big, red button in every action movie you've ever seen. I mean, is this guy for real? I know the big guy is just as stunned by this as I am. He gives nothing away, but I know he's surprised by this madness.

"It could be a trap." He points out. I roll my eyes.

"I think you'll find it's obviously a trap. What do we do?" The big man considers something internally.

"We use thermal imaging to confirm Joker and his men are actually present, sweep the building for projectors and explosive devices and confirm that the button has a definite power source and connection to an exterior detonator." Standard operating procedures are a good thing; they prevent what we might call 'colossal and irreparable fuck-ups' although I am being a little technical there. Bruce scans with thermal imaging software built into his cowl while I use the electronic components in my belt to sweep for unusually placed positioned power sources. When I find projectors present, I'm not surprised. Bruce is quick to come back and confirm there are no persons present in the building, but there is an external broadcast system, one that laughing boy is probably using to monitor the building for our arrival. He's an idiot, really is underestimating us. The big guy easily traces the source of the broadcast signal to the condemned Gotham Ice Factory, one of the human popsicle's, otherwise known as Mr Freeze's favourite haunts. This is sad, squatting in another villain's hidey hole. I can't wait to knock that freak's teeth out and put him in traction.

I don't really want to give you the full, detailed brief on what happened when we crashed through the skylight at the factory. Mainly, because it went south again. Joker's a homicidal maniac for sure, but he's also damn impressive at inventing on the fly. Realizing we might actually we able to stop him, the clown incapacitated the big man first. There were no fisticuffs, no overwhelming numbers or even a single shot fired; Joker simply snuck up behind him and doused him with some chemical agent. The effects were pretty startling to say the least; Bruce crumpled to the deck like wet paper within three seconds of muscling Joker off. It had to have been some kind of paralytic agent or other, fast-acting and very, very inconvenient. So, I was alone and facing down a small army of hoods and murderers with a dangerous Pagliacci as their ringleader. As experienced and competent as I was, at that moment, I was trying desperately not to drop a load in my pants. The only thing I could hear at that time, besides the blood pounding in my ears, was that little voice asking me to make a choice:

_Fight or Flight, Jay-Jay?_

_Fight or Flight?_

_Fight or Flight?_

Since I couldn't outrun any of them with a two-hundred and ten pound superhero across my shoulders, I think the voice was making a joke giving me any options besides the hardest one. Even my conscience is a smartass. Time to fight. Once again, it was Jason Todd versus THE WORLD. I'm not gonna lie, I got hit a lot. And I got scared that neither of us would make it out of there alive. I just thank God that I'm terrified of the Grim Reaper because my fear of death keep me in it. Every time I took a heavy shot and thought my legs couldn't take the strain, I found a way to return the favour. But I mostly got hit because I was distracted. The threat of a nuclear bomb going off and levelling half the city does that to you. Ten minutes in, I clocked Joker going for some makeshift controls at the far side. He was going to activate that bomb. I hustled after him like nothing I've ever done before. I barged my way through the scum barring my path with some brutal foot to face negotiation and arrived on top of Joker…too late. He'd already hit what could've only been the detonation button. At that point, the situation had gotten as far south as it could without crossing the border into Mexico. At that point, I believed we'd just caused the deaths of hundreds of thousands of innocent people. I thought we'd failed. Fuck…

"YOU FUCKING PSYCHOPATH!" I yell smashing his teeth inward with my elbow and grabbing a handful of his shirt while preparing to beat him to death. Then I notice the quiet outside the factory walls. It's too quiet for a nuclear blast wave; I'm pretty certain I'd hear something like that, as crazy as it may sound. That means either the detonator doesn't work or, way more likely, Jim Gordon and his bomb squad have disarmed the device at the focal point. Smart play by the teenage sidekick right there. I'm so relieved by the revelation that I almost totally forget about Bruce lying prone on the floor. The disgruntled looking lackeys are starting to close on him as I look down from the platform I'm stuck on. I need a distraction. Why didn't I restock my smoke pellets after last night? I need a cover…I glance down at Joker and smile. "You know I've always wondered if you could fly." I tell him before haphazardly flinging him over the railing. He cackles wildly as he falls. Everyone looks and Bruce is safe for the moment.

I use the few minutes Joker's encore performance bought me to radio the GCPD with the location and appropriate level of force to detain these leeches. I also muttered something about maybe half-a-dozen ambulances. I'd like to see anybody try to run from what's coming next. After shattering the controls' casing and disconnecting the power source to prevent any further attempts, I jump back down, taking out four of them with just my bodyweight. Joker is a bloody and mangled mess on the floor; he's not going anywhere. Just to make sure it stays that way, I head-butt my way through three people and proceed to break all his fingers as well as his remaining ankle. Hopefully that's too much pain to produce an ace from up his disgusting sleeves. Those that are left are already nursing bruises and fractures from earlier and are in no mood to fight; that is just too bad. I spare no one because no one deserves to be spared. They all conspired with this nutcase to wipe out close to half-a-million people, no doubt just for imagined money from a diseased mind; Joker's sick, but at least he has insanity as an excuse. These guys have nothing to defend themselves with. I don't count broken bones or missing teeth for this encounter. I just take them down quick and leave them bleeding in pools. None of the injuries are fatal, just psychologically shattering. By the time GCPD show their faces, I've got Bruce on my shoulders and am ready to leave.

"Is he okay?" One of the rookies asks me. Uh, no, he's really NOT okay, dumbass.

"Oh yeah, sure he is. Sometimes he just tires himself out with all the crime fighting he does. So I'm going to take him back to his mommy and she can put him in bed. Shh, don't wake him up." The rookie gives me a withering glare, immediately picking up on my sarcasm. I dare him to make a move and he relents. I walk out. Then the rookie calls out. "What do I tell the commissioner when he gets here?" I roll my eyes.

"Tell him we won you retard."

I can squat more than three-hundred and fifty pounds for repetitions. Right now, Bruce feels a lot heavier than his two hundred and ten pounds. Every step is a killer and I think one of those degenerates in the factory broke my nose, but I keep pushing forward by insulting him. "You're a shit superhero, you know. I mean I don't see Superman being carted out of a crime scene by Jimmy Olsen. But yet here you are. It's up to Robin to rescue your paralytic ass AND save the day. I hope you remember this when Gordon sings your praises tomorrow morning." I know he can hear me perfectly. He just can't speak. So what's the difference? In any other situation there's always a chance he might say something. Here, until Al gives him an antidote for the agent, he can't utter a single word. I get him in the passenger seat of the car, take a few minutes to readjust my spine and then climb in the driver's seat. I've got a provisional driver's licence, but never bothered to take my actual driving exam despite being taught to comfortably drive cars, trucks, tanks, boats and light aircraft by Bruce during training; none of them were simulators, a brave choice in my opinion, particularly with the plane. The bat mobile is child's play to operate, provided you know where all the controls are. Fortunately, I do. I fire up the engine, take off the handbrake, reverse her out smoothly from the alleyway and screech off into the night.

The car's top speed is close to two-hundred miles an hour, but she runs best at between one-hundred and twenty-five and one-hundred and fifty miles an hour. Right now I'm pushing it above one-sixty. Luckily, by the time I reach that kind of insane speed, I'm already out the city and out on the back roads towards the cave. I've only ever driven this monster once and that was illegally when I was a little bit stoned. As I recall, I wrapped it round a gate post before claiming the brakes went. The brake pads DON'T fail in this car, only the driver. So this time is a hell of a lot better from my point of view. The big man is probably just praying I don't kill anyone.

We arrive back at the cave shortly before ten; it's been a long one. Al gives me a hand dragging Bruce out the car and promptly gets to work restoring him. I light up a cigarette. I need this to help relieve the stress. Al glares at me in disapproval but I just gesture at the big guy and take another drag. The Miracle Man gets Bruce talking again in no time. Yippee.

"Jim disarmed the bomb?" He asks as Al assists him in mobilising his stiff joints. I roll my eyes whilst taking off my cape.

"I don't think he personally stepped up to the plate, but his team definitely managed to disarm the thing." Bruce frowns and then nods.

"They disarmed it at least twenty minutes quicker than I anticipated." I nod, putting my gloves, belt and cape in the armoury before unfastening the tunic.

"They saved our asses today. If they hadn't disarmed it when they did, we'd be looking at a mortician's fantasy about now."

"And you performed exceptionally well in the face of such adversity." He offers as I put the tunic down for Al to wash.

"That's why I'm your partner, not your kid. What did that lunatic spritz you with anyway?"

"A variant of spider venom, the main purpose of which is to incapacitate the prey so the spider can feast on it live. Simple but effective, particularly in the high concentrated form I was exposed to."

"You are fortunate to be alive, Master Bruce! I am certain that, had you not developed such a high resilience to Ms Isley's toxins over the years, you would have been dead in minutes." Al chimes in letting Bruce's right arm drop under its own power. The big man nods in appreciation and flexes his arms at the elbow and wrist joints.

"Still, I'm very glad we could bring these proceedings to a close so swiftly. Less than seventy-two hours to put him back under lock and key is definitely a new record." Bruce remarks, smiling at me briefly as if to suggest my role was somewhat more important than usual. I get no further verbal praise though. I'd say the whole success of this mission was down to me convincing him to change his mind. Robin saved Gotham this time, but no one is gonna remember that. No one remembers the kid.

"Well, I'm going to bed." I announce whilst preparing to scale the staircase.

"Master Jason, you are clearly injured. Come back here and let me…"

"Sit down, Al. You can treat me in the morning. Right now, I'm tired and irritated and I just want sleep. I got painkillers in my room. Good night." I pause after a few steps and consider. "Make sure you've got fresh underwear when you come calling tomorrow. I left it all by the machine."

Face hurts, shoulders hurt, back's in knots, knees in bits and my ass feels like it's been cracked with a two-by-four two dozen times over. Yeah, Jason Todd definitely saved the day this time; I can feel it all over.


	7. Chapter 7

**Conundrums**

**Author's Note: Time for another colourful villain to make an appearance in the world of Jason Todd's Robin. Other chapters will follow this, perhaps before the end of the week. Enjoy.**

I can't stand crossword puzzles. The clues are just stupid and pretty far out of a normal guy's knowledge circle, so I avoid them. Brain teasers and conundrums are the same. So you can imagine I really get irritated when a weirdo with a serious 'thing' for riddles swans onto the scene and starts playing games. Yeah, Eddie Nigma is back at large, somebody throw a ticker tape parade. He's normally just a really camp clown, a guy who talks a big game and wimps out at the death. Bruce and I have taken him down five times in the past and apparently Dick just stopped counting. Eddie's not only a habitual criminal; he's also a perpetual disappointment. Yeah sure the green-clad goon's got an IQ that makes Mensa blush, but he's still no match for Bruce's intellect. Doesn't matter how hard the puzzle is, how convoluted the solution may be or even how obscure the source material turns out to be; the big guy ALWAYS figures it out. Me, I just stand back and hit the thugs dumb enough to run. That system works for us, with me as the muscle and him as the brains. Fortunately this time, Nigma is a little more serious about the whole thing; he's already killed three people with victim-operated death-traps inside a month. Camp turns lethal awful quick in this city. Bruce is pissed.

He hasn't slept for three days running now. Somehow the case always comes first, despite the fact that GCPD do this gig for a living and even they sleep when chasing murderers. I sleep too, because I'm not obsessed with the puzzle either. When it comes down to it, Bruce and Eddie aren't all that different; their compulsions just pop up in different ways. And, even though the big guy preaches about justice and morality night and day, we all know this is a competition to prove who the smartest man in Gotham is. Bruce has an ego that's just as superhumanly large as the rest of him, although he'd never admit it, and WANTS that title. He can have it.

Somewhere out there, Eddie's hasn't slept for days too. He's probably mired in hypotheses and scenarios, trying to determine how fast Bruce can solve the riddle he left him yesterday. Even though the man is arrogant and considers himself superior to every person in this city, including the big guy, Eddie can't help himself. I know because I see it with Bruce. Eddie needs the wheels in his head to turn, constantly. Without continuous challenges to his intellect, Nigma wouldn't be able to function as effectively as he does. He'd stop trying and just give up. As much as he says otherwise, Bruce NEEDS people like Eddie to keep him in it too. Without costumed freaks threatening to raze his city to the ground, Bruce would have given up on this life already. This is the price of obsession. I want no part of it, not now, not ever.

I get woken up at something ridiculous like four in the morning by Bruce. He's in my room, hunched over my bed, shaking my shoulders. Just when I think this dream can't get any weirder, he starts whispering.

"I've got it. I know the location." You have got to be kidding me. Is this guy for real? You want me to get up a four in the morning to go find something potentially lethal to play with? Don't think I'm playing this game, rich boy.

"If you survive, bring back pizza. Extra cheese, no pepperoni." I instruct him before turning away from him and closing my eyes.

"Please, Jason I need you."

"Yeah? Well my bed needs me and I can't be in two places at once here."

"A girl may die within an hour if we don't leave right now."

"Well, seeing as I'm butt-naked and we have to leave RIGHT now, I don't think I'm going to make it." He jerks the covers off me in one swift motion and growls his next words.

"Get up, now." I sigh lethargically before reluctantly hauling my ass off the mattress.

"It was a joke, alright? I'm up."

"Put some pants on and meet me in the cave. Five minutes."

As soon as I get down to the cave, he doesn't even need to tell me to put on my costume; I'm stripping already. He's sat in the car, cowl and caped up to the absolute limit, a look of grim determination carved into his face as I reluctantly join him in the passenger seat whilst fixing my cape. Apparently there's NO time to even put on my seatbelt before he fires up the engine and the car just thunders off into the darkness. I'd glare at him, but he's too jacked up to notice anything but the goal ahead of him. So I just sit back and keep my mouth shut. After a few minutes of deathly silence, the kind that even a cemetery would think too quiet, Bruce finally fills me in on what the hell is going on right now.

"Riddler's puzzle was a simple one if you were to look at it in terms of the big picture as opposed to the individual components. I discovered that the majority of the code was simple repetition, meant to keep me looking for some deeper meaning to explain their inclusion, to distract me. Once I realized I had to ignore the number of repetitions of the message, I focused on what else I had actually uncovered. The hostage's age, sex and location were outlined in that repeated message using a unique encryption sequence. Once I broke it, everything fell into place." It took you three DAYS to uncover THREE pieces of information? That is what I would definitely call a piss-poor effort, Mr World's _Greatest_ Detective. Did you try breaking it with your eyes shut or what? I just nod to show him I follow what's been said. He's lucky I don't fall asleep with how dry and dull his explanation was; the guy's all brains, no soul. Does he even enjoy this crap anymore? Still, a girl is supposedly in trouble right now so I'm really focused for this one. I just really hope I haven't experienced my last sex dream ever because it ended way too soon for me to snuff it tonight. I'll fill you in on the details later. It was a pretty sweet setup. Okay, so there were three of them naked in the pool and…

"Jason?"

"Yes?"

"Did you hear what I just said?"

"Uh, warehouse on Gotham Docks, lot number two-four-nine, you enter through the front and I take the rear. The green goon's probably used an electric current in the trap design so make sure I've got rubber-soled boots on." Yeah, Bruce taught me to split my concentration and the art of total recall before I could even execute a cartwheel.

"Good." So, anyway, back to this dream of mine; and then one of them produces a can of whipped cream…

"We're here." I hope I don't forget this dream before I get to the best part. We'll see in a while, after saving yet _another_ person's life from being destroyed by a lycra-clad maniac. We both jump out the car without another word spoken and head to our respective entry points on the building.

The warehouse in question looks like a new build, the kind criminals have started budgeting to make our jobs harder. Instead of the classical corrugated iron structure that's about as effective as a chocolate fireguard at keeping out trouble, they've got a superhero's nightmare; lead-lined brick. It's highly expensive stuff and very sought after in a little place called Metropolis although I can't imagine why. Like blue boy's x-ray vision, our thermal imaging equipment and motion sensors can't penetrate through lead laden material. Nigma knows this. It's a custom job all over; there's no windows, roof access point or back door for that matter. I think really hard about whether or not to just use gelatine explosive to make my own entrance, deciding that it might trigger something inside. I double-back to the big guy.

"Boss, I can't find a way in."

"I know." Bruce gestures to a blank wall where designers should've probably put a door in. I frown.

"There's no other way in. So, what's the answer: holographic projection or something else?" The big man shakes his head.

"It's simpler than that." He walks forward and taps the wall with his knuckles until we both hear a hollow sound. Bruce takes one step back and then drives his elbow through the brick. It's not lead-lined stuff, just a brick-covered piece of wood screen. Another strike and the whole thing tumbles down to reveal a narrow corridor with a heavy door at the end. I have to roll my eyes when I see this lunatic has taken the time to paint question marks all over the inside. Clearly he fancies himself an interior decorator; something I think is pretty funny for a murderer.

"You think it's booby-trapped, big man?" I ask gesturing to the corridor. Bruce shakes his head.

"No. The real trap is inside the building. It would make little sense trying to kill us before we see the way it works. Let's go." So we just waltz up to the door like a couple of amateurs and give a brief listen to the other side before deciding it's a good idea to turn the handle and walk inside.


	8. Chapter 8

**Shortcuts**

**Author's Note: This took a long time to construct and I am not happy with this chapter because of it. But I now feel I have a suitable platform to close down the story arc neatly in the ensuing installments. Enjoy.**

There's a word for describing the death-trap we're currently facing, just as there's a word for describing the girl's position at its epicentre. The word for the trap is problematical (thank you Al) and the word for the girl is fucked (a Jason Todd trademark). The girl, a pretty co-ed wearing a Gotham University sweatshirt, is unconscious in what looks like a custom-built electric chair in the centre of a colossal room crammed with all kinds of nasty looking electrical equipment and some lethal looking blades jutting out of all four walls. As in all death-traps, the door we entered through locks behind us (somehow he never thinks about wedging his foot in the doorframe) and we're alone. We both try to establish radio contact from inside the building, but puzzle boy's probably got a scattering field or some heavy-duty shielding in place to block transmissions. We can't get through to an outside line.

"Did you inform Gordon about this midnight stroll of ours?" I ask, thinking I already know the answer.

"No. I could not risk Nigma gaining an audience. It might encourage him to do something reckless just for the spectacle."

"_Quite right, Dark Knight." _We look up to find Riddler's face grinning at us from a huge projector screen against the far wall. _"This is a game of wits, not of stupidity although I don't know why you brought your dense and hot-headed sidekick to the party." _He's not my biggest fan ever since I broke three of his ribs and fractured his jaw on our last play-date.

"I'm here for an encore, Eddie; this time I'm gonna snap your neck." Even though he sneers contemptuously, and even though the screen's image is a little grainy, I can see the fear in his eyes and the slight quiver as he fires off a retort.

"_I doubt you're even smart enough to know how to end a life."_ He's afraid of me. And if he's afraid of the kid, then the guy is going to be terrified of Bruce, especially after quipping a line like that in light of what he's done. Bruce is silent. His stare burns into the screen and I know Nigma has pushed him the wrong way. It's a BIG mistake to him pissed at you, _seriously_ pissed at you. Since the big man is too intense to speak, I pose the question on his behalf.

"Why don't you shut your mouth and tell us how your stupid game works, Eddie, before we break the rules."

"_Yes, let's get right to it, shall we? The girl you see is alive, but unconscious. I have told her the numerical code necessary to find my next trap and only she can tell you because I certainly won't. The aim of the game is simple; reach the girl without touching the floor and she's safe; try to cheat, touch the floor or use outside assistance to aid your flight, and she dies…horribly."_

"I hope you will be able to fully understand why I beat you so badly once this game is concluded, Nigma. At this point, you have no recourse." Bruce growls at our unwanted host. He is gonna tear this asshole limb from limb, no joke. Nigma isn't pleading just yet.

"_Did I neglect to mention there is a strict time limit for completion of this ingenious design of mine? You have exactly six minutes to rescue her or she will die anyway. Now…" _Eddie leans forward, _"Let's see you fail." _A digital countdown display appears on the wall beside us and begins shedding the seconds with a regular bleep. We both take stock of the room. The girl in the chair is on a platform raised some twenty feet off the ground. Judging solely from the appearance of the blades and the mechanisms surrounding them, it looks like they're designed to come out if triggered. A look at the floor finds a series of large square tiles covering the length of the room. It's a good bet that stepping on those is the trigger for the blades. The tiles look rigged for electricity and shocks. There are no other platforms, hanging wires or pipes to help us out in navigating this place; the room is actually pretty bare. The ceiling is smooth and has absolutely zero purchase for grapnel guns or handholds. As far as death-traps go, this one's pretty dull. All the while we're looking for the solution; The Riddler is leering at us from his screen. We notice the cameras in all four corners of the room moments later. This is obviously the matinee feature on tonight's program. I'm not seeing the quick and dirty solution here. I turn to the big man aware Eddie can hear us as well as see us.

We communicate in gestures that form part of a secret code only we have knowledge of. Using subtle hand movements and facial tics, the sort that are indistinguishable from involuntary actions, we hold a conference. I tell him I have no idea how to approach this. He informs me he believes he has the answer. Then he makes a gesture I have no clue about, mainly because I gave his lessons on the code plenty of lip service, but not nearly enough study. When I repeatedly shake my head to his gesture, Bruce's shoulders slump and he sighs. He signals for me to come closer so he can whisper in my ear.

"It's a chess problem. There are sixty-four squares on the floor and the girl represents a queen. The blades number fifty, indicating that this is a puzzle that can be solved in less than fifty moves. The six minute time-limit is comparable to Armageddon Chess. I would deduce that we are the white pieces and she represents the black because of the greater time given to white in this particular chess format." Okay, never would've figured that one out. I lean back to point out the obvious snag in his theory.

"How can we make a move if we don't know what pieces we're supposed to be and we can't touch the floor?" Bruce does not even stop to consider before firing back an answer.

"We are ALL the pieces. The puzzle here is not to advance on the queen. The queen has already been captured. It is a case of working out HOW she was captured. He wants us to tell him the sequence of moves to reach her current position, but he wants it backwards."

"Can you do it?"

"The queen is the most powerful piece in the game and possesses the greatest freedom of movement; there are simply too many scenarios to deduce the exact path taken to arrive at this juncture. I can make a guess, but if I am wrong there will not be sufficient time to attempt another."

"So what's your REAL plan for this?"

"Distract him so I can engineer an escape. Think you can distract him, Robin?" I grin up at the screen.

"Yeah, I think I can do that."

So Bruce has the trap's solution and has deemed it nigh on impossible. Now, it's time for our back-up plan; divide and conquer. Basically I work the room and become the absolute centre of attention while the big man silently works to free us. In a room this tight and an audience this tough, the chances of Bruce managing to go unnoticed in rescuing her are pretty slim. So I get to work. I look up at Nigma and call out.

"How do we know she's not dead already?" Eddie looks a little dumbstruck by the insinuation his game is rigged. He frowns at me.

"_Do you think I need to cheat in order to defeat you?"_

"I think you're not too bothered about getting your hands dirty anymore. Why don't you just prove she's alive for us? Give her a little shock." He seems reluctant to act. I press him. "And how do we know your numerical code isn't here anywhere in this puzzle? I say you're full of shit, you lying scumbag. Call my bluff." Eddie's full attention is on me. I catch the cameras shifting position to focus on me and off the big man. Their adjustment is slight, maybe less a few degrees, but it's enough. I have to pitch at the right level for him to make this work. Time for a verbal duel.

"_You are an unworthy audience for a man of my talents, you little brat." _He snaps in response to my last insult. I shrug.

"What, because I can't get the last side of the Rubik's cube to be all the same colour? Because I can't solve the last clue in the crossword? If that's your measure of intelligence, Eddie baby, you really need to get a life instead of a creepy hobby. Because the girls don't get turned on by a man who can solve a jigsaw puzzle of the sky; they like big, strong men like me." I need to antagonise him enough so that he forgets about everything else but getting one over on me. Since I have a knack for pissing off almost everyone I meet, I'm confident Eddie's only got eyes for me right now, but I can't go too crazy with the insults or it might drive him over the edge. When he responds he growls, doing a pretty good impression of his nemesis.

"_You are none of those things, boy. I doubt you can even spell intelligence with your thuggish mind."_ He's definitely losing his cool with me. So it's time to push him closer to the edge and really get him raging. It's delicate stuff, but unfortunately I'm already running low on material. So I bluntly play my trump card. I scoff at him.

"Yeah? Well, fuck you smartass. I've got a riddle nobody can solve, especially a second-rate hack like you." When he replies, he can barely get his words out. He manages to spit them in short, sharp breaths.

"_I can solve any riddle whatsoever. Test me."_ I have to smile at that; game on, loser. Here's one I made earlier:

"It has no business there, but causes both pain and pleasure in measure. The more you try to remove it, the deeper it goes. Only when it decides to leave does one find relief. What is it?" There's a silence for a second, two seconds, three seconds before he utters a reply. He smiles triumphantly, clearly convinced he has the correct answer.

"_The presence of doubt." _No, no, no, Eddie; that's far too sophisticated an answer for this brain-teaser. The actual answer is a little more low-brow. I shake my head.

"No, my foot in your ass." He pretty much screams in response to that.

"_THAT IS NOT A RIDDLE!" _

"It does make a good joke though, huh? Kinda like your trap, dumbass." I finally tear my eyes away from the screen to see Bruce with the girl slung over his shoulder atop the platform. It's anyone's guess how a man as generously-sized as he is managed to evade the cameras and Nigma's attentions while wearing a bat costume, not to mention how he navigated his way to a place impossibly out of reach, but who cares? Time to blow this Popsicle stand. I drop smoke pellets to cover our escape from prying eyes.

"_CHEATERS! THIS IS A CHESS PROBLEM, NOT A TEST OF AGILITY!" _Eddie yells over the intercom as we use generous amounts of explosive gel to blow the door back open. Once it's hanging off its severely warped hinges, we both rush out into the open air.

"Is she alive?" I ask whilst preparing to radio Gordon and an ambulance to the scene. Bruce is carefully checking her over. Even from where I'm standing, I can see she's not breathing. He isn't frantic or panicked in any of his movements, just clinical. He checks her pulse.

"She's still alive. I'm going to initiate CPR, radio Gordon to get here as soon as possible." The big man states in his matter-of-fact tone before commencing mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. I do as he asks and then watch him work. It only takes a few minutes to get her coughing and spluttering again. Now that's she's officially still with us, Bruce examines her more closely. "She's severely dehydrated and has probably been in captivity for at least three days. It's a wonder she's still alive."

"Can she give us the code?" I ask only for him to sigh and shake his head.

"Not in this condition. She requires immediate medical attention or this will all be in vain. What's the ETA of the medical team?"

"Two minutes." I tell him. He nods in approval of the time.

"I would estimate that, had I not solved the puzzle when I did, an additional eight hours would have proven sufficient to kill her." You can hear the self-inflicted guilt already pooling in his voice when he speaks, like someone attending the funeral of a loved one who thinks they should've done something to stop it. The fact that we got to her in time means nothing to him; whether we got here with eight minutes or eight hours to spare, he still treats it as failure. It's left to me to rouse him from the darkness. I bend down and grip his shoulder as he supports her in his arms.

"We'll get this bastard, big guy, we'll get him."

It's two hours later. The missing girl, positively ID'd as Melody Richards, an electronics major at Gotham U, is still in critical condition in the hospital but is showing signs of recovery. Bruce and I are in the cave, trying to figure out where Riddler could be broadcasting from. The son of a bitch jammed everything when we were in that room so we got no clues or telemetry of any kind on his equipment. We tried returning to investigate the room, but found the building in pieces courtesy of a custom-made self-destruct charge. We couldn't recover any forensics. Miss Richards is our only hope right now and we don't have word on how long she'll be unconscious; it could be days and that's time we just might not have with this lunatic.

"What does he want this time?" I ask the big man. Despite being full focused on the screen display, he takes the time to answer me.

"Edward Nigma wants to prove he is the smartest man in Gotham city." I roll my eyes, having heard that line one too many times already this case.

"Yeah, but that's what this moron ALWAYS wants; why's he bumping people off instead of teasing us with his dumb riddles?"

"It's not why he's killing people, but WHO he is killing. All three of his victims are the highest ranking members of Gotham's Mensa fraternity. The first victim, Michael Weir, possessed an IQ of one-hundred-and-seventy-six. The second victim, Claire Raymond, had an IQ of one-hundred-and- sixty-nine, only a fraction below that of the first. The third victim, Samuel Allan, had an IQ of one-hundred-and-sixty-four. Judging from the traps in which their bodies were found, all three rooms had problems that could only be solved by those of that intelligence level. Melody is not a member of Mensa, but should be. Her IQ is rated as one-hundred-and-fifty-two. She also is very adept at chess, probably the main reason for her room being chess-orientated. Since the victims follow a pattern of diminishing intelligence, I have compiled a list of the next most probable targets he will subject to his tortures. Daniel Brewster, a physics professor at Gotham University is the next most likely target, given his IQ yielding a result of one-hundred-and-forty-eight." It's always incredible to hear him lay out the whole thing for you, like flipping to the end of a murder-mystery novel. It must be so easy for him to uncover all this. I have to ask.

"What's Bruce Wayne's perceived IQ?"

"One-hundred-and-twenty."

"And your actual IQ?"

"I have no exact figure. It is most likely in the region of one-hundred-and-eighty."

"And what's Eddie's intelligence rating?"

"His files show it to be one-hundred-and-seventy."

"So, in actuality you really are the smartest man in Gotham?" Bruce lets himself smirk slightly at my remark before offering a reply.

"Fortunately yes or our task would become far more difficult."

"What's it like, being that intelligent?" When he finally decides to look at me, he can see I'm genuinely curious. He turns his body towards me and gives the grimmest appraisal of high intelligence I have ever heard.

"Having a high IQ is no different than most other luxuries in life; it is a double-edged sword. Every failing is traumatic, every success is expected and all because you feel you _should_ be able to solve everything. I allow myself to think of my intellect as a tool, not an accolade I should flaunt in everyone else's face. In that way, I keep myself in check." But, you're a genius, Bruce; you're an actual, bona-fide genius as well as the most physically impressive man I've ever laid eyes on. Plus you're the richest man in Gotham. Life should be a little bit of picnic for you. I condense it down to fit out my mouth.

"But, you're a genius. You should enjoy it." He clenches his jaw and shakes his head.

"Not when it encourages mad men like Nigma to play games with people's lives. Genius is a luxury until it is a curse. For me, it became the latter some time ago." He turns back to the screen. "You should go to bed." I roll my eyes at that brilliantly hypocritical statement.

"No, YOU should go to bed. You've been awake for eighty hours." I tell him. He ignores my advice.

"I'm fine."

"Look, I know I'm not exactly on yours and Eddie's level in terms of intelligence…" I begin before Bruce turns to look at me again.

"Don't think like that, Jason. I have never considered your intellect inferior to mine, only of a different sort." As flattering as that is coming from you, it's really not enough to get me off your back, big man. Listen carefully…

"So take my advice and hit the sack. You need sleep as much as I do and a hell of a lot more too." Bruce's eyes say that he agrees with me entirely, but his voice remains stubborn.

"And Nigma?" He reminds me like I forgot there's a lunatic running loose in the city during the past five minutes.

"The GCPD is combing the whole city for him, plus there's an easier place to get inspiration than this computer screen."

"Which is?"

"In your dreams? I bet any money something will come to you in a dream if you sleep for a few hours." Yeah, it's not scientific and it's not got any real basis in reality, but it's still as good an idea as any. He relents.

"Perhaps you're right."

"We will get him, Bruce, we always get them in the end."


	9. Chapter 9

**Assistants **

**Author's Note: See how this washes. Enjoy.**

Malory Richards is recovering well. She's awake and lucid enough to speak. Rather than wait for Gordon to interview her, obtain the numerical code and then inform him at a later date, Bruce has decided on a different direction; he's sent in Dick. Dick, posing as a police officer, is to question her and get the code as soon as possible, and then radio it straight to the big man in the cave so he can start work on deciphering it immediately. Since I don't attend mainstream school, and apparently have nothing better to do with my time, he sends me to help Dick. I don't know how exactly a sixteen-year-old teenage boy is supposed to help in a delicate and frankly illegal scenario like the one I described, but whatever, it's a trip out.

I'm hanging around for maybe ten minutes in the car Bruce arranged for us before Dick wanders out of the hospital and gives me the nod. He suits a bull's uniform, really complements his smug disposition. He opens the driver door and gets in without saying a word. I stare at him expectantly whilst waving the transceiver radio I'm holding in his face. He nods whilst pushing it back towards me.

"Five-Seven-Six-Three-Five-Twelve-Seven-Eight-Two." He says with a grin. I consider trying to tell Bruce that for maybe a minute before tossing the radio to Dick.

"You tell him." He flashes me a smug smile of satisfaction before relaying the information to the big man while I sit back and feel obsolete. When he's done taking the spotlight, he looks back at me.

"Come on, Jay-bird; you're not sore at me for playing the errand boy for once, are you? I thought you'd appreciate the assist; he must be pushing you hard with all this Riddler crap going on." He is pushing me hard, Golden Boy, but that's part and package of being Robin. If you can't take the heat, get your hand off the fucking stove and go play somewhere you don't risk getting burnt every day. I'm pissed he thought he needed you here to assist in OUR investigation. Doesn't he trust me? I mean, how many shots do I have to take and how many times do I have to save the day for him to keep things between just the two of us? Didn't I handle things last night with Eddie and his death-trap? Aren't we making headway? Just fuck off, Dick.

"Just fuck off, Dick." I reply, not feeling the need for any rewrites to the script in my head. He's not shocked by that kind of blatant dislike. If anything I hope he's used to me resenting him and the reputation he left behind as Robin. It's nothing personal, I just hate him.

"Well, you sound like you've fully recovered from that bad beating you had a few months back." He offers in a cheery voice. I know how to counter that.

"Yeah, nice of you to visit." I fire back sarcastically. Dick rolls his eyes.

"Hey, I was busy, okay? I'm sorry I couldn't come see you but I had to prioritise." You want to go there, Golden Boy? We'll go there…

"Yeah, I can see how fucking anything with a pulse would be _really_ important." He scoffs at this pretty offensive remark and dismisses it with a laugh.

"Ever the charmer. My personal life is none of your business just so you know, little one, and I'm only here because Bruce asked me to help out. Once he's done with me, I'll leave." As promising a scenario as that sounds, I still don't believe he'll leave when the big man says to. I shake my head and shrug my shoulders.

"Whatever, just drive the car."

By the time we get back to the manor, Bruce already has our next assignment. He quickly informs us he's solved the numerical code and deduced it to be a numbering system for buildings used in city blueprints from the 1900s. Overlapping current city blueprints with the earlier versions shows a correlation on a structure located deep in the condemned area of the Bowery. He's quick; you have to give him that.

"I believe the building houses a similar design to the previous one, a self-contained room with a single hostage and elaborate trap." Bruce tells us in that wonderfully cold and detached manner of his. He looks awful by the way, well beyond the living off fumes stage of exhaustion and into depths I don't think I've ever seen. And still his mind works faster than ninety-five per cent of the population. His body on the other hand…

"Are you going to be leading this rescue mission, Bossman?" I ask in a way that tries to be tactful instead of plain unimpressed. I think both Golden Boy and I are stunned when he shakes his head.

"No. Recent activities and exertions have told me I need to rest or face irreparable damage to my body. You two will therefore lead the rescue mission with Alfred co-ordinating matters from here. He has been fully briefed on the current investigation and has all gathered intelligence on the intended victim and building schematics available for use. Nightwing will lead the operation with Robin as support. This matter is not open for debate, but seeing as you are fully versed in the investigation, Jason, I expect you to adequately back brief Dick prior to going out on the ground. Is that understood?" I am livid and ready to self-destruct in an avalanche of abuse. Golden Boy is going to LEAD this rescue? He's going to fucking LEAD this rescue, mine and Bruce's case? I am tempted to tee off on Dick's face if he so much as flashes me a smile. When I reply I barely manage to stop the bile from pouring out my mouth.

"Can I have a private word with you?" The big man gestures to a secluded corner of the cave and we both leave Ponytail Boy hanging. Once we're out of earshot, I vent a little more than I should. "I'm fucking Robin, Bruce. Are you really saying I can't handle this on my own, that I need a chaperone? Are you on crack?" Bruce surprisingly takes it in good humour and shakes his head.

"No to both questions. I have no doubt of your capabilities, but I am not willing to risk you being compromised by Nigma for the sake of your ego. Dick goes because it is what I feel is best to ensure success. He goes because it is not only the best way of keeping you safe, but him as well and I will rest better knowing you are looking out for one another. He is leading this operation because he has the most experience and is a highly efficient commander."

"And I'm not?" I counter only for Bruce to brutally cut me down with cold precision.

"No. You are not. In time you will be, but not at present. We do not have time to waste. So Dick leads the mission. Now, is that understood, soldier?" The big man is the best tactician and commander I have ever met. He may be a poor excuse for a human being and father, but he is the ultimate soldier and I have to get in line now or probably get killed later. So I give him the correct reply.

"Yes, Sir. I understand."

We head out at dusk, fully tooled up and ready to kick Eddie's ass. Dick decides the best way to reach our destination is to take the car. I think it's a stupid idea and we should transit there using the rooftops, but Golden Boy's in charge so I keep it buttoned. Daniel Brewster, physics buff and genius, was abducted on his way to work near Gotham U earlier this morning. According to Bruce's analysis, he's Riddler's most likely next target and so we work based on that assumption. Local witnesses to the kidnapping said Brewster was cycling near to the campus when an unmarked and unregistered black van pulled alongside him and two heavily disguised men jumped out. The men then proceeded to overpower the physics professor and hurl him in the back of the van, with his bike, and flee the scene. All GCPD's attempts to trace the van or identify the men have failed. Even if they could, it makes no difference; they were only acting as couriers for Nigma and, once paid, would never be heard from again. We both know where Brewster is now and are only minutes away from hopefully freeing him. Al made us aware that the man is sixty-two and has a heart condition, one that requires meds he's not had access to in almost twelve hours. We shift our asses into high gear and arrive there only minutes later.

The building's another derelict-looking shell, the same as every other condemned structure in the area, but I know from the previous model that it's probably housing some very nasty surprises inside. Between us we conduct a sweep of the perimeter and find no sign of surveillance or security equipment on the exterior brickwork. This time it's not lead-lined or hiding the entryway like its predecessor; it must be a budget model or Eddie's just run out of funds. All the windows and doors are boarded up, but one covering a doorway is a different colour to the others; it's fucking green for God's sake. Do we need a bigger indicator or what? Eddie really thinks we're retards who need to be hand-led to the entrance or we'll totally fuck it up and get lost. I can't wait to knock his teeth out, can't wait another minute…

Dick leads the way by booting down the wood with a pretty sick side-kick, one even I have to admit is impressive. It's déjà vu as we enter a narrow corridor with a heavy looking door at the end. Yet again, the green moron has unleashed his paintbrush and paint pot on the door's veneer and yet again, he's gone with a green question mark motif. I nudge Dick.

"As soon as we walk through that door, all our electronics are going to go man down." I tell him. He sighs lethargically.

"Typical bad-guy move, huh?"

"It is for our criminals anyway."

"Eddie only respects intellect in any case; our mobile hardware store isn't going to impress him here." He turns to me and grins, "Shall we go dazzle him with our smarts, Little Bird?"

"After you Big Bird."

We go in without any further coaxing.

The room is similar to the other one with our would-be victim in the middle of the room in a device that resembles Houdini's Chinese Water Torture Cell whilst the floor around it is covered by dozens of squares. A glance at the man suspended upside down by his ankles behind glass confirms it is Daniel Brewster and he is seemingly still alive but passed out. The walls are again covered in some very lethal-looking blades although this time they also seem to be electrified for variety's sake, yawn…

This time, the door doesn't lock shut behind us as I cleverly wedge it open with a flash grenade before it has the chance. The familiar projector screen above the death-trap below hums into life and soon enough Eddie's ugly mug is right in our faces.

"_Oh dear; it would appear our caped crusader has let both me and you down with his absence. I highly doubt either of you two are up to the challenge. It's a pity really…"_

"Come on, Eddie, give us a chance here." Dick begins with an amicable smile and bashful shrug, "We do go way back after all." I roll my eyes and resist the urge to vomit at his attempts to play coy with a maniac. Golden Boy is charismatic, but he's no actor and I'll bet Eddie can see right through him. But Riddler smiles instead.

"_Very well said, 'Nightwing'. After our colourful history with one another, I suppose I could see if you have learned anything in the intervening years. However," _Eddie pauses to look in my immediate direction, _"Your caveman-like successor is not to participate in this little challenge of mine; knowing him I'd wager he would simply cheat to achieve the goal whereas I know you would really make an effort to play fair."_ Oh God! You guys want a hotel room or something? It almost seems like Golden Boy's entrenched himself in the villains' asses as well as Bruce's and it's sickening to say the least. I grin at him.

"Go ahead, dumbass and show us what stupid intellectual puzzle you've spent the last day coming up with." The green goon ignores me and my comment outright, focusing what he says next entirely on Dick.

"_Here is the challenge. You must rescue the hostage in the cell before the time limit expires. The problem of freeing them stems from the fact that in order to reach them you can only step on a single square at a time and on each square you must solve a riddle to move on to the next. The most direct route requires six correct answers. Failure on any riddle means that square cannot be used to negotiate a path and you must plot an alternative route to the centre. Once at the cell, you must solve the numerical puzzle to unlock the container and release the hostage. For this entire challenge, you have only five minutes to reach and free the hostage. Do you trust your intelligence can win out against the challenge, former Boy Wonder?"_ Golden Boy just grins at the proposal and drops a sly wink in my direction before answering.

"Piece of cake. Can we start?"

"_By all means…" _A colossal digital timer begins counting down on the outside of the cell, _"Begin."_

Dick steps on the first square. It lights up briefly before Eddie poses his first conundrum.

"_The man who invented it doesn't want it. The man who bought it doesn't need it. The man who needs it doesn't know it. What is it?"_

He's starting off easy. The answer's obvious to anyone who's heard the start of it before; it's a coffin. Alfred told me that a few years back when I was training to become Robin. He had to tell me the answer. I suck at riddles, I may have told you already. Dick's heard it before too judging by his smug expression.

"It's a coffin." This time the square Dick's standing on lights up and stays that way. Riddler looks satisfied.

"_Good start, step forward brave knight." _Dick advances to the next square and the puzzle starts again. _"What English word retains the same pronunciation even if you take away four of its five letters?"_

I'm racking my brains trying to add and subtract letters to words and getting zip. Golden Boy doesn't even consider before answering confidently.

"The word is queue."

"_Excellent. Advance again."_

Never would have got that one, not today anyway. Let's see what's next…

Dick answers the following three riddles in less than two minutes:

_It cannot be seen, it weighs nothing, but when put into a barrel, it makes it lighter. What is it? _

A hole.

_Kings and queens may cling to power  
>and the jester's got his call<br>But, as you may all discover,  
>the common one outranks them all. What is it?<em>

An ace in a deck of cards.

_Every dawn begins with me  
>At dusk I'll be the first you see<br>And daybreak couldn't come without  
>What midday centres all about<br>Daises grow from me, I'm told  
>And when I come, I end all cold<br>But in the sun I won't be found  
>Yet still, each day I'll be around. Answer?<em>

The letter 'd'.

The final one has him stumped for maybe twenty seconds before he answers.

"It's a clock, Eddie."

"_Magnificent answers, my boy! He taught you far better than I had ever realized. You thoroughly deserve to stand only one puzzle away from freeing your hostage. Are you ready for the numerical component of this challenge?" _Nigma sounds like a kid at Christmas right now. He's so excited about the prospect of someone other than the usual suspect matching wits with him that he genuinely sounds happy to continue. I feel sick.

"With only ninety seconds left on the clock, I guess I'll have to be, huh?" Please don't trade quips with him, Ponytail. I couldn't stand that right now. Let's just save the damn hostage and get out of here. And Eddie's still not done gushing about Golden Boy's supposed talent.

"_Oh, you are a breath of fresh air, Nightwing! Your mentor is too dour for humour and your successor is too dense for intelligent conversation. You have no idea how pleased I am you showed up today! Let's get cracking…" _Eddie clears his throat to kill more time. _"__If Susan is 10, Arabella is 20, and Jim and Neal are both 5, but Richard is 10, how much is Jennifer by the same system?"_ That's when it hits me, right there. I get what's going on now; Riddler _wants_ him to succeed. He _wants_ Dick to solve the puzzles; I can see the expectation and longing in his eyes. I just haven't figured out why yet. It's starting to worry me I don't know, especially at crunch time. Meanwhile, my illustrious leader has cleared the final hurdle and responded to the puzzle.

"Jennifer is fifteen. Five years are awarded for each syllable in her name."

"_Congratulations, genius! You've earned your prize. Simply enter that number into the keypad and press enter. The rest will do itself." _As Dick begins to push the buttons, I get why this is all so straightforward and Eddie is so pleased. I'm an idiot for not spotting it earlier and so is Dick; he's going to incapacitate Ponytail and take him out of the equation now he's confirmed how well the acrobat's mind works under stress and with logical puzzles. He's going to trap me in here with two casualties and fuck me over for last night's distraction. I can't even communicate this to Dick because fifty thousand volts is raging through his body and shocking him into unconsciousness. Damn I'm slow to piece it together. I give no visible reaction to this last-minute rule change except to emit a tired sigh even though I'm bricking it right now. I gaze up to find the maniac leering down at me with a wicked grin.

"He still alive, Eddie?"

"_For the moment, Cave Boy. Mr Brewster will also stay breathing until our business is concluded. Our business will conclude when either you answer a riddle incorrectly or I exhaust my back catalogue of brain teasers. So, the challenge now is to keep them alive without any outside assistance. "_

"Just you and me, huh, Crazy Man?"

"_Yes. So let's begin afresh…"_


	10. Chapter 10

**Solutions**

**Author's Note: Final chapter of this story arc. If you want more, make your opinion heard and tell me so. Otherwise, enjoy.**

Appraisal of situation: stuck in a death-trap with one of the smartest men on the planet with an unconscious physics professor and a newly unconscious superhero unaware of how dated his hairstyle is. Have wedged the entrance open with flash grenade but am too far away from Brewster or Golden Boy to engineer a fast escape. Brewster is still suspended upside down by his ankles in a Chinese Water Torture Cell and Dick is still twitching slightly in the aftermath of eating raw electricity. The only way out of here to ensure my survival is to drop a smoke pellet and flee out the door, leaving them both to die. Of course I don't mind doing that to Ponytail, but Brewster doesn't deserve that ending. So, it looks like I'm just going to have to play Eddie's game and hope I can bluff my way past him. Summary of situation: we're all fucked. Nice attitude, Jay-Jay; the big man will really appreciate that when you're all dead, how you shrugged your shoulders and just gave up. You know the rules: don't break, bend, cry or fold to anything or anyone, don't give them the satisfaction of seeing you beg or plead and definitely don't give up fighting until you're dead. If it works on the streets then it works here too. But nobody ever said begging and negotiating were the same thing…

"_Here is your first riddle: what…"_

"Why don't we make this interesting, Eddie? You know for a fact I'm not all that good at brain-teasers and this would be a pretty short exercise in futility. So I'll make you a deal: I ask YOU the riddles and you give me the answers. You get six in a row and you can kill me outright. You have to answer EVERY riddle and if you guess wrong I get to walk out of here with my fallen sidekick and the prune in the tank. So what do ya say? You wanna test yourself against MY knowledge or not?" There's a brief silence as the green goon considers my ill-conceived proposal. I then watch the same smug smile always present on Dick's face spread its way onto his. He lets out a small moan of what can only be pleasure, like oh so many of the perverts I've known, and slopes his fingers together. He's going to bite.

"_That does sound like a more enjoyable way to watch you and your colleagues meet your ends." _There is a rumble that sounds like thunder when he claps his hands, _"Very well, Bird-brained Wonder! Ask your riddles!"_

"Just one more thing, Eddie; you've only got thirty seconds to answer each riddle. Think you can do it?" Riddler scoffs at my time constraints.

"_That shan't be a problem! There isn't a riddle in the civilized world I cannot solve in less than twenty seconds! Let us begin!"_ Okay then, no way to outsmart this son-of-a-bitch, but I bet there's a way to break him. I already know from our last encounter that he despises my lowbrow humour and frankly tasteless jokes and that he was so peeved at me for the ass jibe last night that he purposely constructed this just to trap me. His weakness is not his ego like Bruce thinks or his pride like I used to think; his biggest failing is his lack of a sense of humour. The man simply can't take a joke, tasteless or otherwise. On Gotham's streets I had nothing but a sense of humour to stave off suicide and starvation. Granted, my humour is so black that even Bruce's seems light by comparison, but it is the one asset I possess that Eddie doesn't. So it's time to run with it and see what happens…

"What's green, weighs a hundred pounds, and lives at the bottom of the ocean?" This one is a classic from the bygone days when I _did_ attend mainstream school, the third grade to be exact. The answer should be obvious, even to a man as 'sophisticated' as riddle boy here. Eddie narrows his eyes at me and his smug expression disappears without trace, leaving only a slight snarl in its place.

"_Is this the level of sophistication for all your riddles, boy?" _He inquires with annoyance already substituting what had been glee. I must really rub him up the wrong way to get this reaction so soon. I shrug my shoulders.

"Are you struggling already, Eddikins? Need a clue?"

"_The answer is obvious to anyone who attended the third grade: Moby Snot. One down, five to go." _

Eddie knows I'm all by my lonesome here, but what he doesn't know is that although he does have a jamming field in place for electronics it only works completely in a sealed environment. The flash grenade stuck in the door is only giving an inch of space away from total entrapment, but it's enough to allow one piece of my equipment to work: the emergency beacon. This little distress signal tells Alfred that we need some serious backup and gives a GPS grid location for him to direct them to. Knowing Gordon's response time to assemble a swat team and air support and then transport them here, I'd say I've only got to hold out for another twelve minutes. But twelve minutes is a long time to get out five more riddles and be killed, in fact, it's enough time to do it twice over. So stalling needs to be heavily relied upon.

"That's right, Eddie. You attend grade school too?" He looks insulted by the question and his indignant tone in answering only confirms it.

"_Of course I did! Did you even make it past the third grade?"_ Now he sounds like a petulant teenager…eerily like me to be honest. I give him some ammunition.

"I dropped out in the sixth grade, actually." I say. Eddie sneers.

"_Well, it doesn't show; you seem far stupider than a twelve-year-old."_

"Why thank you."

"_You're welcome, idiot boy. Continue riddling."_ He gives that response through almost gritted teeth. I'm getting to him all over again. Try this bad boy on for size, you big baby…

"A big moron and a little moron were standing on a bridge over the River Send. The big moron fell in but the little moron didn't. Why?" My dad told me this one when I was nine. At the time, I thought it was the cleverest thing I'd ever heard and that my old man was some kind of genius. I still think it's pretty smart, but my dad was definitely not a genius of any kind. Judging by the slowly gathering thunder on Eddie's face, he's of the same opinion.

"_He was a little more ON. Plebeian at best. Next…" _

"Let me ask you something: since you're so smart and knew exactly how to lure my ponytail sporting companion into that trap, what can you tell about me?" Riddler looks wholly disinterested in this avenue of conversation so I goad him a little, "Is your 'highly analytical' mind not up to the task of dissecting what makes me tick? Are you that desperate for my next conundrum?" This pretty childish threat of having his ears clogged with yet more bad riddles, prompts him to answer.

"_I suppose not. I estimate that Mr Brewster has little over an hour left to live before his heart gives out and that your companion will remain unconscious for the next ten minutes. Therefore, I will oblige your request and tear you to pieces…" _Eddie leans back and folds his arms before scrutinising me in silence for a few seconds. Then he responds. _"You're a former member of Gotham's down and outs, but judging by your age and current physical condition you haven't been in the gutter in some time. I would also wager that, looking at your speech and mannerisms, your parents were not affluent members of this society and all your mentor's attempts to civilize you have failed. I suppose…a likely possibility exists you prostituted yourself to pay for food and accommodation and is why you seem to resent the more wealthy patrons of this city. The papers often comment on your rudeness to high societal types after saving the day and such a theory would support it; they have everything and have never suffered like you." _He stops to consider something, rubbing his chin briefly before articulating his thought, _"Your biggest chip on the shoulder though is your paralytic predecessor lying on the floor. You, for all your talents at head-butting thugs and arm breaking, are not as good as him. Your mentor thinks so too and what's more, he tells you at every possible point he can. You feel inferior next to him and rightly so." _Not a bad effort, Eddie, not bad at all. He seems so involved in his own analysis that he clearly wants to continue, but I cut him off before he can voice another syllable.

"Well you got all the major elements of the sob story right, Eddie baby, kudos on that." I begin, clapping my hands in mock applause. "But none of that crap is what makes me tick. That's just my life in two hundred words or less by a bad storyteller. What gets my rocks off is beating guys like you." Eddie scoffs and leans forward again.

"_You would have to add one hundred IQ points to stand even a slight chance of…"_

"I didn't mean with my mind, dumbass. I meant _really_ beating you…with my bare hands. Because I know you're in this building right now."

"_Impossible. You haven't the faintest idea where I am at this moment." _Not up until you decided to lean back I didn't. With your head filling up most of the screen, you could've been on Mars for all I knew, but then you leaned back far enough to see the wall behind you. You couldn't have known it, Eddie, but I know that wall like I know this building. It's not a special wall or anything, just another plethora of decaying brickwork and peeling damp wallpaper, but it has got one distinctive characteristic in the bottom right corner. There, almost out of camera shot is a little information about a former occupant of the middle floor. Scrawled in black crayon are the words 'JT lived here.'

In my early days as a street urchin, I slept in a lot of abandoned buildings and alleyways at night. This building we're currently stood in used to be my favourite because of the views of the city from the middle floor. On a clear night, you could see right across the Bowery all the way to the financial district. It was like a sea of lights and altogether very beautiful. Every time I slept somewhere, even if it was just for the night, I would write 'JT lived here' on the nearest wall. I even did it in the motels and bathrooms I got fucked in towards the end of my apprenticeship as a vagrant. It was my way of leaving my mark on the city because I figured I'd never be able to do it any other way given my circumstances. As we all know now, that's no longer the case. There's a costumed maniac right above me and I fully intend to leave my mark two inches deep in his face with my boot heel. All I have to do is figure out how to get him down here…

I look up at the ceiling and smile.

This room's ceiling is not smooth and looks fairly brittle from where I'm standing. There are some pretty significant areas of dry-rot and mould looking down at me and altogether it's unsound for human habitation, hence the fact this dump is condemned. If I remember the layout of this place, the main stairwell would be almost where Brewster is doing his bat impersonation and would lead to the upstairs corridor. The room facing the financial district is on the left as you go up the stairs and the wall I scribbled on is the far right one as you walk through the doorway to that room…I adjust my position to get a better look at the ceiling beneath where I believe that room is. The plaster is warped and chunks of it look freshly disturbed. A quick scan of the remaining area shows no similar phenomenon and I'm convinced Eddie is above that shaken plaster. I must've been mute a while because Nigma suddenly sounds smug and impatient again.

"_Are you quite finished trying to 'psyche' me out, Cave Boy?"_ I look from the ceiling to the projector screen and smile. I reach behind my back to the pouches where I store sticky explosive charges and take two in my right hand. When thrown, these babies stick to whatever surface in front of them and detonate after a two second delay. Bruce thinks they're unreliable but I think they're awesome; I've wasted many hours in the cave flinging them around with varying charges and watching the ensuing carnage they create.

"I take it you've got your finger on that magical button that sends us all to meet our makers, ready to end this contest if I so much as glance at you the wrong way, correct?" I ask bringing my now clenched right hand to just under my chin. Eddie leers at me in sick pleasure as he did at the start of our little game. He's composed himself just enough to think he's gotten to me on some level; what a fucking tool.

"_So there is some intelligence hiding amongst the simian brain you possess. You are quite correct; one false move and I…"_

"ATCHOO!" It's pretty lame I know, but an untimely sneeze is the only distraction I could think of that would actually fly here, along with the stickies I released simultaneously. I hear them land with what can only be described as a soft splat and know I've got him. "Sorry, you were saying?" Eddie goes to continue his sentence…

Two…

One…

"_I…"_

End of days, Eddie baby. I hit the deck and watch the fireworks.

The ensuing explosion is everything I love in action movies; loud, fiery and above all devastatingly effective. As soon as the main brunt of debris is on the ground, I feel relief. The explosion brought down half the ceiling, including Eddie and his control panels. Both lay crumpled and broken on the floor, one a mess of fried circuits and the other a mess of blood and superficial burns. Brewster is still safe inside his cell and Golden Boy only got partially buried in newly fallen rubble. After dusting off as much of the fallout as possible, I stand up and stroll over to Eddie's mangled form and check his pulse; unfortunately, he's still alive. I wander over and check Dick's pulse and feel my blood run cold…

He's STILL alive too. Never mind, Jay-Jay, never mind. I examine Brewster's cage. It looks like the door is sealed shut and only the correct combination will open it up again. However, the glass used is the same stuff they use in maximum security prisons. Called 'safety glass' by the prison staff, this stuff is bulletproof and resistant to high yield explosives, possessing virtually no weakness in its structural integrity and is as close to unbreakable as is possible to engineer. Why am I pleased about this discovery? This stuff is close to unbreakable, yes, but it IS breakable. All a guy needs is sufficient force and the correct angle to strike it at; seventeen degrees left of absolute centre to be exact. Thank you Google. No, I'm kidding, it was Bruce that told me. One perfect kick later, the kind I practice for hours and hours in the cave for when I inevitably enter the prison system, and the glass shatters like a gangbanger's teeth. I free Brewster of his restraints, turn him right way up and check his breathing and heart rate; they're both faint, but they're there all the same.

I free Ponytail from his tomb of ceiling chunks and assorted pipe fragments and drag his limp ass to the relative safety of the doorway which is still ajar. I do the same for Brewster and then turn my attentions to the room's designer. Eddie's eyes are half-open and glazed as I crouch down to move him. As I reach for his wrist, he grabs my arm and shakes his head.

"You…You…ch-ch-cheated." The moron manages to mumble in his drunken stupor. I nod at him and grin.

"I know. And I won. I do hope you'll think of this beautiful moment when you're having a catheter shoved up your dick in Arkham's infirmary; out-smarted by a caveman." Eddie appropriately loses whatever semblance of consciousness he had immediately after I finish taunting him. I pick him up effortlessly and place him by the others. Next up is forensic bagging and tagging of the circuit boards that nutjob used to control this death-trap. Normally I'd leave it for the cops, but Bruce will want to see this one for future reference. A few minutes later, Golden Boy finally stirs.

"What happened?" He moans pathetically whilst getting to his feet with all the grace of a cow on ice.

"Nothing much. I just saved your ass and stopped a demented psychopath from killing anyone else." I tell him as I shoulder the door wide open. I hear the sound of roaring engines speeding towards us and know Gordon's nearly here.

"Blowing up the building was your solution?" He sounds unimpressed and maybe even a little disappointed. Fuck you, Ponytail.

"Fuck you, Ponytail. I stopped him didn't I? Everyone's still alive, aren't they? Quit your bitching about procedure and just help me get Brewster some medical assistance before he croaks." I snap at him. It feels great and Golden Boy does exactly as he's told. I force the door to stay open using one of Dick's collapsible escrima sticks and use a fireman's carry to move Brewster to the safety of a waiting ambulance. The swat team pile into the building and secure the perimeter as Ponytail and I have a short chat with Jim.

"Is he not feeling well?" Gordon inquires after our mutual teacher.

"No, he's fucked, Sir." I inform him to get a scathing glance from both of them. I don't care. I don't care about anything right now, because I saved the day all on my own.

"Well, send him my compliments for all your hard work these past few weeks with this lunatic. Although, I would like you to stress to him that this is supposed to be a partnership. If he has relevant information about these degenerates in future, please ask him to _share_ it with us. We are allegedly the face of law and order in this city, not its damn clean-up crew. Now, with that said, whose idea was it to nearly char Mr Nigma to a crisp and almost bring down the building on top of you by using explosives?" Gordon asks before sternly gazing in my direction. "Was it you by any chance, son?" I'm about to tell him to bite me only for Dick to take the heat on my behalf.

"It was me, Sir. I apologize but I had little alternative in the situation." Jim adopts a surprised expression.

"I can't believe you would be so reckless. I thought your mentor taught you better! If you had used just a fraction more, the whole building would have crumbled and we'd be dragging four corpses out of there instead! This area is condemned for a damn reason, son! You're lucky I don't charge you with reckless endangerment for that stunt! Next time you won't be so fortunate, do I make myself clear?" Gotta hand it to Golden Boy, he takes his tongue-lashing like a man; I would've probably walked off somewhere in the middle. When Jim's done with his angry headmaster routine, Dick nods and is very much a diplomat in his response.

"Yes, Sir. Do you require us for anything else?"

"No. No, I don't think so. Tell your boss to contact me at the earliest opportunity to discuss this matter. Get out of here." We turn around and leave the scene, heading back towards the car. Al's trying to make contact with me on my earpiece, but I'm ignoring him because I'm pissed off. Dick fills him on the situation and spares few details, typical teacher's pet. I just saved the day, but they've just made it sound like I've destroyed half the world and need to have someone cover for me. Sure there was always a chance the building could collapse under the pressure of the explosives, but it didn't. There was always a chance they'd be pulling our dead bodies out of the rubble, but they weren't. Risk versus reward is a tricky thing to calculate, but I made my choice, stuck to it and it paid off big time. I didn't get it wrong and I didn't fuck up; I won. Just like I told Eddie, I won out and saved the day.

Dick tries to tell me he only took the flak because he wants to make me look good. That's a load of shit but I don't bother telling him that. He tries to communicate how wrong he was about my abilities to handle the big moments and how impressed he is with my efforts. Again, I ignore him and I keep blanking him all the way back to the cave. Golden Boy's opinion doesn't mean jack. I don't want his thoughts and I don't want his cover from Gordon or Bruce or anybody else. I'm Jason Todd and I can fight my own battles and take my own punishments without some self-absorbed guardian angel by my side. I did it before I met Bruce and I can do it right now too. So just shove it, Circus Boy, before I shove it for you.

Once we're parked up, Al comes down to meet us. He gestures at Dick. "Master Richard, please come with me for medical treatment. Master Jason, go upstairs. Master Bruce wishes to speak with you immediately." I pull off my domino mask and walk up to the house. I go straight through the library and parlour, up the master staircase and straight to his study door. I don't knock. I go straight in and sit down without being invited. Bruce is sat behind the antique desk in his dressing gown, regarding me with a typically unreadable expression. He looks well-rested and no longer burdened by exhaustion or obsession. He opens conversation after a few minutes of vacant staring.

"Are you okay, Jason?" He says. I roll my eyes.

"Look if you're going to chew me up for what happened to Riddle Boy…"

"I am not going to do that, Jason. Nigma killed three people and was potentially not far away from killing another four including Miss Richards and yourselves and Mr Brewster tonight. It is only fitting he suffer somewhat for the misery he has caused and families he has torn apart. I called you in here to inform that, no matter what anyone else may say, I am confident you acted in the best way possible given your situation and that the results speak for themselves. I want you to know…I'm proud of you, Jason." That last part looked like it was hard for him to admit out loud, but he _did_ say it and I did hear it clearly. I need to clarify something.

"Are you saying you would've done the same thing in my place?"

"No and only because I would have no way of knowing Nigma was in that building at that time. How did you know?"

"I used to rough it there from time to time. I saw my initials in the video feed and knew he was above me in my old haunt. Lucky break, huh?" Bruce nods in agreement.

"It's fortunate you were astute enough to notice such a minor detail. Had you missed it, the outcome could have been radically different. Well done." Thanks a lot, big guy. It genuinely means something that he thinks I did what was best in the situation. For once, it's Bruce and not just Al who's on my side. I don't tell him this. I just nod back and prepare to get to my feet.

"Yeah, well, if there's nothing else, I'm going to go shower and then go to bed." I get up to leave only for the big guy to copy me and stand up too. He rounds the desk and walks the few steps to where I am. I get nervous and start thinking this is finally the part where he bends me over the desk and rapes me, but it's still not gotten to that stage yet.

"I'm glad you're safe, Jay-Jay. After the traumas you have suffered in the past few months, I was afraid you might suffer some side-effects. This work has a cumulative effect as I have no doubt demonstrated in recent weeks and I was concerned you might be heading in the same direction. So you're sure you're alright, son?" He asks putting a firm hand on my shoulder. I nod.

"Yeah, I'm just tired. I'm pretty sure you know what I mean, huh?" Bruce smiles at me and I return the favour. He nods in understanding but seems uncomfortable to let his hand leave my shoulder. Maybe he feels he should offer me more than this; if I were Dick he'd probably have hugged me before now or something similar. But I'm not Dick and I don't need his affection…

I just want it is all.

"Goodnight, Jason." Bruce says letting his hand fall off my shoulder. I decide I should just tell him how this is supposed to work between us.

"Listen, for future reference, don't be afraid to hug me. I'm tough, but I still feel like one every now and again and I'm still only sixteen. Just try not to fuck me up any more than the world's already managed, okay?" The big guy absorbs this Jason Todd top tip and nods.

"Okay."

"Thanks for being nice to me for once too. It does help, honest. I'll see you in the morning, Bruce." I say stepping past him and leaving the room without saying another word or looking at him again. Today was okay. I enjoyed being the knight in shining armour yet again, making Golden Boy look like a court jester and garnering the praise of the kingdom's king. Finally, the kid gets the nod. Finally, Jason Todd wins.


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note: In Afghanistan and decided to continue story out of boredom. Provisionally set to run for between three and four chapters. Here is the first. Enjoy.**

**Undercover**

I wake up to the sound of Bruce and not Al calling my name. It keeps happening more and more now and I don't know whether I like it. Because I don't attend a mainstream school I spend most of my time either in the gym, in Al's lessons, in the cave working on cases or sleeping like I'm dead. Bruce waking me up means either it's early in the morning and he hasn't gone to work yet or it's the middle of the afternoon and he's come home early. In either case, I don't appreciate being disturbed. Before I even bother to open my eyes I ask him for the time with my face mashed into the pillow.

"It's almost three in the afternoon Jason." The big man informs me with more than a little bass in his voice: I'm in trouble for something. I keep my eyes closed as I speak again.

"Do you need me for something?"

"I'd like you to explain this to me."

"Do I have to open my eyes?" I sigh without even trying to lift my head off the pillow. I think I know what he's got in his hand. It's not going to take an amazing defence to shrug it off, but I am a little peeved he's going to bring it up in the first place.

"That would be wise." He says in the same low and ominous tone. I lethargically flip myself over onto my back, prop my body up using my elbows and force my eyes open. I find Bruce in a slightly crumpled suit standing at the foot of my bed and holding the half-smoked joint I decided I didn't want to finish in his hand. His expression is decisively stern. I make the choice to escalate the situation by grinning at him. I gesture at the joint with a half-assed hand and shrug.

"This is what has you pissed this afternoon? Have you been sniffing my jeans again? People will start talking if you keep it up." I inquire rubbing the sleep from my face. The big man's facial expression darkens at my casual approach to what he obviously feels is a sizeable betrayal on my part.

"If I were to search your room, would I find more of this hiding in a drawer or under your mattress?" Oh my god: did I miss this episode of The Brady Bunch? Jeez he sounds clichéd and more to the point, stupid right now. I set him straight.

"This isn't some corny TV sitcom or lifetime movie, Bruce. I know you want to be a better parent to me, but finding a joint and jumping to the conclusion I'm a pot-head is an example of BAD parenting."

"Answer my question Jason: would I find more?" He says looking like he wants to crush the smoking gun for emphasis or effect. I'm not unnerved in the slightest by this: my heart beat is actually slowing down instead of speeding up right now. Because I know I've got nothing to hide here. I tell him the truth and shake my head.

"Nope. That is the first doobie I've smoked in almost five years. I used to like them when I was on the street, but I guess my tastes have changed a little." Bruce's expression morphs from simmering rage to bemusement. He probably thought he knew everything about my sordid little past by now, but my closets are even deeper than his and the skeletons just keep on coming, except this is more like a footnote than a full-on secret. I never hid it from him - he just never asked. I also used to deal a little towards the end of my apprenticeship on Gotham's streets but could never quite get the right kind of offers. People were always more interested in me than my merchandise, big problem in that game. Bruce turns his eyes onto the joint.

"Where did you acquire it?" He says pretending to inspect it when I know he's already gathered enough evidence to know for himself. I think he's embarrassed his conclusion was pretty cut and dry for a man of his calibre. Even though he knows and is not really interested in which small-time dealer is giving dime bags of weed out to dumb kids for twice the street value, I tell him anyway.

"Outside Gotham High School. I know someone."

"Why?" He asks whilst turning his attentions back to me. I don't need to ask for clarification on what he means. He just wants to know why I smoked one after all this time. I shrug nonchalantly.

"I just wondered whether I'd sleep better after having one."

"I see. Nightmares again?"

"Nah, just a little insomnia. I can handle it."

He grunts at me in understanding and flicks the joint into my wastepaper basket from over thirty feet away without even looking. "We'll say no more about it then. I apologize for being slightly too curt with you on the matter." He tells me with a trace of humility that I find both satisfying and amusing at the same time. His apology also means my recreational habits aren't the only topics of discussion. So I cut to the chase.

"It's okay you were just being a hard-ass again. What else did you come to talk to me about?" I ask to make him raise an eyebrow in mild surprise.

"What gave you the impression we had other matters to discuss?" I frown at him and feel a little insulted: the answer's obvious even to a blunt object like me.

"The fact you haven't left yet. What do you want me to do?" I reply shifting my weight so I'm lying on my side and propping my head up using my hand. The big guy rounds the bed until he's standing at the left-hand side of it and then delivers the job with the grace of a brick going through a plate glass window.

"I need you to go undercover in a juvenile gang affiliated to Harvey Dent's new crew. You'll need to gain their trust, infiltrate the gang and learn all you can about Dent's new operations. You'll be away from here for at least six weeks and I'll require daily intelligence reports so I can monitor your progress."

Two-Face has been free from Arkham for almost three weeks. Instead of turning up the day after his breakout with some crime planned around his obsession with the number two, ol' Harv's been in hiding. All his old safe houses haven't been touched at all and the usual suspects for aiding the weirdo in his gangland schemes haven't heard from him either. It's a definite change in the man's M.O, something that makes Bruce anxious. After a fortnight, we were giving up hope of ever finding a lead and then happened to stumble across a youth gang whilst on routine patrols. They only said his name once, but the context of their conversation was enough to convince the big guy that they were his best leads. We've had them under surveillance for the past week and already figured out from their meetings with variable amounts of notorious scum that Two-Face is still in Gotham and that he has a new crew and a new plan. The only thing we're missing is a precise location for Harv. His new guys may be dumb but he's not, even if he does look like a half-chewed eraser. Tailing his crew led nowhere: they seemed to just drop off the face of the Earth after a few minutes of GPS tracking. So the big guy is right when he says these kids, around my age maybe a year or two either side, are our best shot. But I've already made up my mind on the matter.

"No way am I doing that." I tell him without any pause. His jaw tightens in the aftermath but he remains relatively calm.

"And why not?"

"Because I don't do undercover details and you have never once trusted me to do one; you always think I'm going to screw it up for you. Plus the fact that Two-Face murdered my dad, orphaned me and pretty much destroyed my chance at a normal life creates that little dilemma you like to call a 'conflict of interest'. Then there's all that information we got on his new crew members and the fact nearly all of them are convicted child molesters and are probably using this juvenile gang of kids to satisfy themselves on a regular basis. Kids who get raped don't trust or like kids who haven't, especially ones that just happen to turn up out of the blue: they get awfully suspicious. And if all that wasn't enough to sway you, I really don't like the idea that I might get fucked up the ass again for nothing more than to get wind Two-face is planning crimes that focus on the number two. That's why not." I finish whilst gesturing for him to just try and convince me otherwise. Bruce considers something and then nods. He knows I'm right and I'm glad he's not willing to argue the point with me. I think he's having a hard time formulating a sound strategy given how many lives were lost just between Joker and Eddie's fun and games. He was careful and meticulous then and it still ended with a morgue full of victims. He comes and sits on the edge of my bed, unbuttoning his suit jacket as he does. He weighs down the mattress so much I almost roll towards him.

"I suppose I was somewhat rash with my planning at this stage. But it's important that Dent has no indication that Batman is watching him: he has to think we don't know where he is or who his people are. If he does, he'll start killing to take the fight to us and gain the advantage. After Nygma and Joker's recent displays of attrition, I am keen to avoid unnecessary bloodshed." He explains even though I've already heard this a few times in the last week but I get it: the stakes are high, as they always are now. I reach out and put my hand on his forearm.

"Come on Bruce: Two-Face is a total psychopath, yes, but really when it comes down to it he's just another gangster with an M.O we've seen a million times before. He's not as crazy as Joker or as smart as Eddie meaning his box is a lot smaller than either of theirs and he rarely bothers to think outside it because his COIN tells him not to. He's going to lose. He always does." Bruce looks at me and smiles in appreciation of my efforts before I see a flicker of inspiration dance in his eyes for a moment. His smile widens.

"The answer is still to go undercover, but _not_ as someone else. The key part of the intelligence picture is the juvenile gang because they know the location of at least three of Dent's new safe houses. They only run for Dent because they have no alternative: steal or die. No one deals with them because they've got criminal records and live in The Narrows. No one listens to them because they see them as criminals and nothing else. But if they were to find someone who did listen, someone who gave them a chance to earn their money a different way by perhaps some kind of personal work placement scheme…" He says trailing off to ensure I follow his train of thought. I take my hand back and grin.

"So you're going to go undercover as Bruce Wayne? That's a hell of a novelty. Who will I be?" I ask stretching out my spine.

"The boy who warms them to the idea because he's been where they are and know where they're going to end up if they stay the course with criminal behaviour: you're going to be Jason Todd, the reformed juvenile delinquent." He tells me with genuine pleasure at how simple his idea is. I have to ruin the atmosphere with a quip though because I literally just can't help it.

"But I just told you I can't act." Bruce's smile disappears and the familiar frown of disapproval is so quick to return that the change is almost instantaneous.

"Now is not the time for jokes Jason. How would you feel about trying to win them over?"

"It's a hell of a lot safer than risking my ass in a six-week replay of a life I'd rather not repeat. It'll be a piece of cake, Boss-man." He nods at me in what could almost be gratitude. He pats my hand a few times and offers a half-hearted smile.

"Good boy. I think we should begin the planning today and announce the scheme first thing tomorrow morning. I'll need you down in the cave in forty minutes for initial preparation." He gets up and leaves the room without saying another word or looking at me again. I expected as much. Calling me 'boy' and patting my hand is probably as much affection as I'm going to get and it's fine. I don't want or need any more at this stage of my life: I just need a shower.

Even though Two-Face is top priority, that doesn't mean the rest of the criminal underworld takes a vacation to Disneyland until we put him away and since the big man is wrapped up with that tiresome game of catch the costumed crazy again, I've been picking up the slack in the streets on solo patrols. As a consequence, my body is taking a few more knocks than usual and even the water from the shower nozzle feels like it's beating me up as it crashes over newly bruised skin. Once I'm showered I quickly dry and wrap myself in my workout sweats before heading down into the kitchen. I find Al cooking something on the stove.

"You are either a silver-tongued devil or Master Bruce is not overly concerned by your teenage flights of fancy." The old man begins without turning to look at me. "Either way, you seem to have put him in a good mood." Al continues whilst plating whatever he was working on and finally turning towards me. He's made me a huge Spanish omelette with a side order of sweet potato fries and onion chutney. How do I know it's for me? Do you honestly think Bruce is going to order something that nice or fattening at a time like this? Never, but I sure as hell will. I can't help but beam at Al as he wanders over. "To the victor go the spoils, young man." He announces before setting it down at the breakfast bar.

"He didn't fill you in on his master plan Al?" I ask parking my ass on a breakfast stool as the old man hands me a knife and fork.

"No Sir, but I am assuming this bribe will enable you to do so instead." He replies with a sly smile. I feign shock and even decide to affect a stammer to add realism to my performance.

"A-are you s-saying you don't love me e-enough Al to just make me this?" Al looks at me in what can only be described as utter astonishment.

"There are trees in the Amazonian rainforest not yet discovered by man that are less wooden and more believable in their portrayal of emotional pain than you Master Jason. May I ask what possibly motivated you to include that very poor rendition of a stammer?" Ouch. I mean jeez, that was harsh and witty but he really laid the insults on thick. I clutch at my chest like I'm having a heart attack.

"You rip my heart out and then want an explanation? Do you want to feast on my soul for dessert Al or are you too full from sucking out all my self-esteem just now?" He rolls his eyes and nods.

"I will retract my previous statement if the pantomime stops here. What is Master Bruce's idea for snaring Mr Dent?" He says as I begin to devour what has become my breakfast.

"I was actually trying to tell you: he plans to go undercover and act his way to grabbing Two-Face." I tell him whilst trying to swallow what seems like a whole pepper. Al sighs lethargically at the news before taking a seat opposite me.

"He promised he was done with undercover 'stings' for the time being. How long will he be away?"

"Well first he wanted me to get raped to try and get some info on the guy's location but then he thought it would be better if he DIDN'T pimp me out like I'm still a rent boy. Instead he's going to go undercover as some douchebag called Bruce Wayne and use his money to gain trust and then get some info. He wants me to be the keynote speaker too; I play the reformed bad-boy in this production, Jason Todd." Al's face lights up upon hearing this news as it's obviously a total surprise for Bruce's usual repertoire of undercover operations but he feigns disappointment.

"Am I take it then that both you and he will not be casually dropping off the face of the Earth in the next few days?"

"No we will not." I reply whilst dipping a fry in the chutney.

"I will cancel my poker games and champagne parties then." I scoff at the idea of him ever doing something so outlandish.

"You were never going to play poker Al."


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note: Recent review presented an idea I couldn't help but use and attempt to pass off as my own. Jason and Bruce hammer out the finer parts of the plan. Jason gets a surprise. Bruce improvises. Enjoy.**

**Crunch Time**

When I get down to the operations centre in the cave, I can see the big guy has swapped his fancy suit for a burgundy crew-neck sweater and a pair of slate-coloured slacks, proving once again that he thinks ugly is a fashion statement and not just disgusting. Once I'm within ear shot of his command chair, he wastes no time in opening the conversation with his usual charm.

"You are twenty-three minutes late."

"There was a long line at the bathroom. Nice outfit. Gucci?" I say grabbing the other chair and wheeling it next to his. He glances over his shoulder at me, obviously unimpressed with my guess.

"This isn't Gucci. I thought Alfred had educated you on this facet of high society." In response to this I tug at my workout sweats.

"Do I look like a guy who likes designer clothes?"

"You have a fully stocked wardrobe of such clothes upstairs."

"Which I never wear unless you make me. Half of them still have tags."

"I suppose this is what happens when we allow you to stay out of mainstream schooling." He remarks obviously thinking if I went to a high school that I'd be more self-conscious of what I was wearing and make a bigger effort, but he's wrong: I just like being lazy sometimes. I cut to the chase.

"The point is your outfit is ugly as hell." If Bruce is stung at all by the criticism, it doesn't register on his face. He elects to offer me an amused smile, something I actually think suits him.

"Yes I thought you were being sarcastic. Would you like to sit down and begin work now?"

Once I sit down and promise to keep my mouth shut for the next three minutes, the big man outlines his draft for the scheme he's going to fund with about two-hundred million dollars of money, roughly the same amount he got ripped off at when Al bought that sweater that looks like it's painted on. Bruce informs me that the next possible opportunity for Two-Tone to strike with a crime that is directly related to the number two is three weeks from now with the Janus exhibit held in the Financial District. Because this affords us some time, the big guy takes his in describing the premise of our 'undercover' op.

Bruce's basic idea is to offer the key members of the juvenile gang a kind of work-placed apprenticeship working for a department of Wayne Enterprises that deals with trade skills like welding, construction or metalwork because none of the kids are currently in school and seem good with their hands. To avoid complications with transport to and from their new places of work, the big guy wants to house them in some of the new apartment buildings he's financing in Park Row. Those parts of the scheme are easy to put into action. Then things get harder.

"We need them to go to group counselling to build some kind of trust with other human beings. Now if it's just them in a room with a counsellor or therapist, I doubt any of them will want to talk. So I'm going to need you to go with them into these group sessions and kick off proceedings. Once you talk, they'll talk and once they talk I have every confidence they will look to you for advice and guidance and begin to confide in you. I estimate a time frame for this to be no longer than two weeks. That would mean only four total counselling sessions of one hour each. What do you say?" I literally can't respond for almost thirty seconds because I'm that shocked at his suggestion. When I do finally reply, I sound incredibly pissed.

"You want me to go in a room with a bunch of strangers and bear my soul? Are you deluded?" I snap.

"Jason…"

"No. I won't do it. You know I can't lie convincingly enough to fool kids like that."

"So don't lie. Tell them the truth."

"You want me to tell them I prostituted myself too? Maybe I should describe how it felt as well because we all know I'd love to talk about that."

"Jason we need to find Harvey as soon as possible. His compulsions are not as overwhelming as Joker or Edward Nigma's and that means we have this amount of time to build the right foundations to take him down safely and without sustaining any more casualties."

"Why can't we just beat the shit out of people until we find him?" I don't realise I've stood up until Bruce sits me back down with hands on both shoulders. I am so uncomfortable right now that even the cave is starting to feel claustrophobic.

"Because one thing Harvey is that Joker and Riddler aren't is paranoid. If he senses the net closing too quickly he will act rashly and he will murder innocent people. If we give him space, he will relax and take his time to build funds and orchestrate his plan. He will strike when we want him to if we just lull into a false sense of security. Then we can use his compulsions against him to bring Dent in before he strike. I need you to do this for me."

Bruce knows I let perverts fuck me for food and shelter, but he doesn't KNOW. He can't know because even though I've been living here for almost four years, I have still never talked about it seriously. And it's not just because I'm embarrassed or ashamed or even disgusted by what I had to do: it's because I don't want him knowing the whole story. He knows enough for us to understand one another and why I sometimes act as I do, but that's all. I can be his Robin as things stand between us right now and I can do the job well. If I talk, I don't know how I'll come out at the end. Keeping my mouth shut on the past makes me strong and because I don't even recognise myself in the mirror anymore, I can con myself into thinking that twelve-year-old kid who once blew a guy for five bucks was just somebody I knew. If I tell people that story, if I told Bruce that story, I don't know how I'd feel.

"You can ask me to do anything else but that." I tell him.

"This is the only way it'll work."

"I can't do this, Bruce. Let's just squeeze some guys for information."

"Jason, you can do this." He tells me with genuine and absolute confidence in what he's just had the balls to say out loud. His hands are still on my shoulders, but I don't feel trapped by them like I usually do when he corners me like this. It's like he wants me to trust him on this and I do want to trust him, but I know him a little too well. I shrug his hands off and pop the obvious question when you're dealing with Bruce and intimacy.

"You're not going to eavesdrop are you?"

"Of course not." He informs me. I consider the plan again and then dismiss it again.

"What if I need my secrets? What if letting them out means I can no longer protect myself?" I ask him seriously. I'm strong because I live in denial and I'm tough because I don't accept that I am capable of being weak. If I talk somehow Bruce will find out. I don't want that. The big guy doesn't hesitate in putting one of his massive hands back on my shoulder.

"Jason, I think you misunderstood me: you don't have to go into detail about any sexual abuse or crimes you may have committed in the past. I believe just mentioning them is enough to start the wheels in motion. You don't have to bear your soul. I would never ask you to do something so traumatic with strangers when you will not even confide in Alfred or myself about what happened. You just need to outline the basics. Okay?" He says squeezing my shoulder in a way that I weirdly like. I nod in relief and everything around us seems to push way back out in the aftermath.

"Don't freak me out like that again. Okay we're good to go on that front. How about the holes in this idea of yours? Can we run through those real quick?"

I know the big guy isn't one to leave any stone unturned when constructing plans like this, but it's not insulting just to check. Plus, this way he can see how engaged I am in what's going on and how eager I am to see it succeed. So I ask how many other kids he is going to offer places to. He says thirty or so. I ask him if they're all going to attend therapy sessions too. He says yes but we'll segregate and split them down in our favour. I ask him whether or not the placement scheme is going to end when we have the intelligence we need. He says it will last past Two-face's arrest. I make sure that when we have the information I no longer have to attend therapy sessions. He assures me I don't. I go on and ask about twelve or thirteen more questions to do with legitimacy of the scheme and how much press coverage he's going to let it have. He answers them all pretty well and I'm happy to go ahead with it. We spend another hour reviewing case files and reports on our primary targets in relaxed silence.

"I'm going to start prepping for patrol." I tell him when the clock runs past seven and I know dusk has come and gone. He considers something before nodding.

"I'll come with you."

The big man has been sitting on the bench for the last two weeks to concentrate on finding Two-Face. Even though I'm stoked to be able to patrol solo in the city and work without his scrutiny or bitching on my methods, it hasn't felt right knowing he wasn't in the city at the same time and was in fact brooding in the cave like a hermit. Despite him being a pain in the ass and as grim as a guy with chronic piles and an allergy to rubber rings, I guess I kind of missed him recently. It's lame and something I thought I'd forced out of my system, but I still want him to hang around with me from time to time, pay me some degree of attention too. So when we suit up and head out, it feels good. I don't let on in any way that I feel like that, but I know that's only because it wouldn't be given back. We pull up the car in Crime Alley and take to the rooftops from there shortly after eight.

Tonight we follow my route around the city that leaves The Narrows until last and starts in The Bowery. The way I figure it, The Narrows are full of the biggest and baddest scumbags in the city and you need to be at your best. But if you start there, fight your ass off and overcome the odds, you're going to burn out long before you finish the patrol and maybe some asshole with a quick hook or a high-quality baseball bat is going to get lucky. So by saving it until last, I can pace myself until the final sprint. Bruce might not agree, but for some reason he's letting me run the show and I'm already suspicious as to why.

After a four-hour stint and fifteen intercepted crimes ranging from theft to attempted murder, we're on the roof of Ace Chemicals. By now he knows I suspect something. So we stop and I eyeball him for a good two or three minutes. He tries to convey innocence with his posture and body language, but I just give him a look and expression that tells him straight-away to cut the bullshit and get to the point.

"I'm hired a tutor for you." He informs me. I just stare at him some more before I can think of anything remotely intelligent to say back.

"Why? Al does a great job and you haven't once suggested a tutor in the four years I've been living here."

"That's only because I could not find anybody besides Alfred who could possibly control you or make you listen to them. Now someone has volunteered and I believe you will be very receptive to them."

"Who is it?" I say already getting disturbing images of skeletal Victorian schoolmasters from old films and overweight matrons in bad-fitting clothes. He smiles.

"They would prefer to introduce themselves to you when they stop by. They'll arrive in the afternoon after the press conference with the media. I want you to give it a chance before you dismiss it."

"You could've told me you were going to do this."

"And have you say no immediately? Your grades are slipping and Alfred is becoming more like a companion than a teacher with you nowadays. It is time to step things up and move on."

"Is this really a good time to be doing this? Can't it wait until we've brought down Two-Face?"

"I have already let it go on for long enough already. According to your most recent tests, your GPA has slipped from 4.0 to 3.5 across all subjects. A tutor will help remedy such issues by being able to give you and your studies their full and undivided attention. Please don't argue with me on the matter."

"I won't but I'm stretched to the wire already with patrols, volunteering to be your rabbit at a greyhound track and now being tutored by a total stranger whilst trying to do the other two things you want."

"You can handle it just fine. I have every confidence in you. Let's get back to patrolling."

I spend the remainder of the night being pissed off, bitching at Al for almost an hour about Bruce being an asshole, eating the old man's brownies to make me feel better and then sleeping like I'm training to earn a spot on the coveted national narcoleptic team. When I wake up it's not by someone calling my name but by somebody's hand violently shaking my shoulder. Unlike Bruce, whose instinctive reaction to danger is to put them in a choke hold, I jump in shock before scrambling back from the threat because I'm in bed and so disorientated by being jolted to consciousness that the room seems to spin around me. When I regain my sense of perspective on the situation I'm bewildered. At the side of bed is a gorgeous and nicely stacked redhead in a blouse, pencil skirt and glasses. Her eyes are green, I can see teeth because she's smiling and she gives off a weirdly powerful vibe just by standing there.

"Wow. You know, Bruce said you were well-built for a kid, but this is something else." She says in something between surprise and amusement. I glance down to make sure my boys aren't on display and am thankful to find I grabbed the sheets when I did my impression of an uncoordinated hamster in a very small cage. The other saving grace is my teenage hormones haven't decided now would be the perfect time to pitch a tent. So I kind of relax a little bit.

"Yeah I guess I'm pretty buff even for a guy who likes to work-out by smashing thugs teeth in on a nightly basis." I reply already clued in on the obvious fact she knows who I and Bruce really are. Her smile widens.

"And I think it's so cute that a big tough guy like you likes to sleep butt-naked and hump his pillows." She offers mockingly. I have to smirk at that. She's got balls leading straight into that from what I gave her. I like her already. But I'm winning this little showdown no matter what. I shrug.

"Okay I tried that _once_ last summer and I ended up with friction burns. I was just hugging my pillow, alright?" I explain whilst pulling more sheets over my legs. She nods and gives me an exaggerated wink like she's being discreet in a silent movie.

"Of course you were Jay, of course you were." Alright, alright: battle lines have been drawn here. Time to return fire with my own risqué commentary.

"Oh, I'm sorry miss I-wear-a-sports- bra- even-when-I'm-tutoring- a-teenage-boy, but just who the hell are you? Play fair."

"Not bad. He said you had a quick mouth too. I'm Barbara Gordon and I'm awesome." She says affecting the voice of royalty to declare her last statement. I roll my eyes.

"Yeah I used to introduce myself with that line too but that was only because it was obviously true: I've got no proof you're not telling lies here."

"How about the line 'I used to be Batgirl and I was awesomer than Dick'?" She retorts already fully aware of deliberately using made-up words in some crazy effort to curry my favour and catch me out on my grammatical skills like I'm five. She probably is better than Ponytail but then again so is Al and Bruce and even my old grade school teacher who used to sneak into the girls locker room during Phys Ed: it's not a hard thing to do.

"There is no such word as 'awesomer' in this language or any other." I say. She nods in what looks like approval.

"And Alfred said you weren't just a chunk of mouth and muscle: HE said you had brains too." Oh really? That's nice of him. Since we're talking about my many attributes, I indicate one of other prize assets with an open hand.

"You wanna see my ass too?" She wrinkles her nose and shakes her head.

"I've already been exposed to that particular pleasure."

"It's hot right?"

"Not as hot as mine I'm afraid." She's completely wrong – my butt is a work of art – but I nod my head and pretend to agree.

"Yeah. Al's got a better ass than mine too."

"Al's got a better ass than all of us."

"Ahem." Al says whilst clearing his throat from the doorway. "As engrossing a subject as my posterior is, I really must curtail your little tête à tête for the good of my health: the choking aroma of your teenage hormones and female perfume really is quite overwhelming…Master Jason. I must apologize, Miss Gordon, but Master Jason is due downstairs in twenty minutes to have his breakfast before the press conference which he will now be attending." Barbara looks at me and grins.

"Looks like your mommy wants you hang out with daddy today. Is she going to help you put your underwear on as well or can you do that all by yourself?" She whispers mockingly. I think she's trying to get under my skin but then again, this is her first time meeting me: I don't do subtlety.

"Are you offering? I didn't know you were an escort as well as a bitch." I declare in as loud a voice as possible to momentarily render her speechless. I look at Al and see him shaking his head in disapproval while trying to desperately hide his amusement at Barbara's reaction to the real Jason Todd and not the file Bruce gave her to study. I look back at her and grin. "This means I've won. But stick around and maybe you'll get another shot. Towel please Al." The old man passes me a towel from my drawers before I slip it round my waist and then wander out the room doing my other animal impression of a strutting peacock.

When I get downstairs half-an-hour later, dressed in nothing but my jogging pants and fading bruises, Bruce is less than pleased.

"You are eleven minutes late. The press conference starts in less than an hour and you are not even dressed yet."

"Yeah sorry. I would've been down here sooner but I needed a few minutes to recover from the stalker who was watching me sleep." I respond whilst grabbing a fresh cup of OJ and perching myself on the kitchen countertop. Bruce nods in understanding.

"I apologize. I should've told you Barbara was coming early. She turned up quite unexpectedly." Whatever you asshole. You told her to come early to try and catch me off-guard and give her a chance to get some leverage over me. Nice try, but not even close. I drink my juice and return the nod.

"You look nice today. What is that, a twelve-thousand dollar suit?" I inquire gesturing to the custom-made and immaculately tailored suit the big man is wearing to go with the perfectly pressed French shirt and Japanese silk necktie he's sporting beneath it. Bruce corrects me.

"This is a five-thousand dollar suit that a purchased from a local tailor in The Narrows. He was very gifted and it is one of my favourites. I am wearing it because it is an important occasion regardless of what motives are behind its development. I expect you to make a similar effort."

"Sure thing. I'll just slip on my tails, top hat and gloves for this press conference I begged you not to make me go to." I say to make the big man's entire face stiffen with restrained anger. I don't know why but I'd really like him to snap right now. I guess I'm still pissed off at him for the tutor and the group therapy set-up I've been forced into accepting. He looks like he just might explode until he doesn't. Instead he wandered over from the coffee pot, stands an inch in front of me and puts a hand on the side of my cheek.

"I understand you're angry with me for some of the decisions I've forced upon you in recent days, but it is only with your best interests in mind. " He tells me with sincerity and eyes that only speak of patience. His huge hand rubs my ear lobe and majority of my left cheek simultaneously as he cements his stance with my rebellious streak as being understanding. "I do love you Jason. Honestly, I do. I know I am loath to say such things for fear of alienating you, but I am very fond of you. If it helps I am sorry for being harsh. We are a team and I should've consulted you. In future I will do so. Right now however, I need you to support me in this operation. We need it to work and snare Dent. For it to work you know I need you. None of this will work without you. You know that right?" He asks, stopping his hand so that the majority of his palm has embedded itself in my hair. I'm not twelve either and this isn't really good enough.

"Why do you always wait until it's almost too fucking late to do anything? I told you a month ago, right after Eddie that I'm a tough little shit but I don't mind a hug every now and then. Fast forward five weeks and this is the most affection you've shown since scumbags almost cracked my head open like a soft-boiled egg. You say you love me? How about proving it at SOME point in this partnership?" I reply in a deliberate and cold tone of voice. Bruce's facial expression doesn't change and he doesn't take his hand away either. Instead he shifts his hand's position until it's clamped in my armpit. His other one mirrors the action on my other armpit. Before I can begin to understand what he's planning, the guy effortlessly lifts me up off the countertop like I'm a sack of feathers and holds me above the ground for several moments. It's all damned impressive stuff, but I don't know what he's trying to prove exactly until he presses me against his chest with the same ease and hugs me tightly.

I have no moves from here and I can't engineer an escape. He holds me in absolute silence for almost a minute like I'm a teddy bear that just happens to weigh one-hundred and sixty-five pounds. Then he takes away an arm to stroke my hair whilst his other arm bears my full weight without any visible strain. Again there's silence. Eventually, after almost three minutes of hugging and hair-stroking, the big guy sets me down on the floor again. He knows exactly how to play me so what I say next and how he replies aren't surprises at all.

"Look I'll make you a deal: I'll go put a suit on if you promise never to something that weird again. Okay?"

"That was the effect I was going for. I'll meet you outside in twenty minutes."


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note; More to come.**

**Prosecution and Defence**

What I'm wearing is hideous. It's a handmade and custom tailored black dress suit with a white shirt and a red tie that I've somehow managed to fasten into a Windsor knot. I hate how perfectly it fits me and the image it must project to the mass of newscasters and journalists gathered in front of the podium Bruce is addressing them from. I must look like a spoilt, little rich brat to them and the big guy must just look like an arrogant bastard even if the scheme is for a better cause than they know. Bruce has adopted his charming, philanthropist persona, the sort of affable nice guy you just want to punch in the face, and is wooing the crowd over with his usual bag of verbal tricks.

He deflects criticism that what we're doing is just a publicity stunt and the scheme is solely for the purpose of Wayne Enterprises to boost its manual labour force to meet demands. He tells them that he wants to help those who have not been given the proper tools or encouragement to have a real shot at a good life. He says this with as much sincerity and passion as is needed to fool the more sceptical members of the reporting world into believing him. As far as I can tell, everything is going exactly as planned. Not that I can tell much standing off to one side of him and zoning out the rest of the world as best as humanly possible. Even though I wolfed down a huge plate of scrambled egg whites, baked beans and soy toast with a side order of muesli and honey, I'm starving up here and my stomach is gnawing at my insides as the conference drags on and on and on. That's actually what I'm obsessing about when I cotton on to the fact Bruce is addressing me.

"Jason?"

"Yeah?"

"They'd like to hear from you." Bruce is saying with one hand over the mike. I frown.

"Who's 'they'?" I ask only for the big man to gesture to the crowd with a sweeping arm gesture. I stare at them and then him in morbid silence. He said nothing about me speaking to two-hundred people at ten in the morning at a podium in a suit when I should still be naked and asleep and in bed right this second. I want to strangle him right now for this, I really do. His eyes almost beg me to speak and I roll mine to tell him I'll do it. "What do they want to hear?"

"Just something they can take to the printers for publication. Tell them why you're backing the scheme." He replies in a confidential tone. I shrug.

"To grab Two…"

"No. Tell them something other than that." He says with a little irritation at my lack of enthusiasm for public games and playacting. I sigh.

"Fine." Bruce proceeds to pull his lips back into a big fake smile, turns to the crowd and speaks in the mike.

"Ladies and Gentleman, my ward Jason Todd. Let's give him a big hand." The man says in an energetic voice that projects excitement and anticipation without promising either, but they eat it up and applaud anyway. Bruce steps away and I step up and face them. I'm not remotely scared of the occasion or the setting: big crowds and the noise of the city relax me more than silent intimacy of an evening meal at the manor. I cast a long look over the sea of generic faces and begin to roll when the applause begins to dwindle.

"I'm a very proud person and I value my independence. I hate charity and I hate hand-outs because of how proud and stubborn I am. When I was a little kid, I lost both my parents and took to the streets to survive. And I don't know how tough the streets of other cities are but Gotham's streets are paved with absolute shit and it takes real balls to stick it out on them for the long haul. For most people who find themselves walking these shit-filled streets, there's no light at the end of the tunnel and hardly any daylight to begin with anyway. Even at twelve I felt the crushing sense of inevitability on my shoulders as I struggled to feed myself and keep warm on these streets, but Bruce changed that. He took me in when I honestly thought nobody would ever care for me and that I would die alone in an alley or a gutter. He changed my life. And he didn't ask anything in return from me, just the promise that I would try and better myself for nobody else but myself. Now he's willing to do the same for dozens of kids in almost exactly the same position as I was in. And he's willing to do it now, off his own back and with his own money. The man just wants to help. But it's not charity he's offering or a hand-out but an opportunity and a chance to do something good for the having the courage to try. If only every other silver-spooned rich guy in the city was as quick to do the same, we might just be able to repave those streets with the gold they surely once had and get the daylight back for all those who still dwell in the dark. Thanks a lot."

They don't applaud me: they cheer their heads off and I feel strange as I step back down and let Bruce bring these proceedings to a close. Personally I thought it sounded too hokey and too wordy to be taken seriously. I didn't plan it that way but that's the way it went. He claps me on the shoulder a few times, probably more for the cameras than my reassurance, and begins to field the closing questions from the audience. We're back in the Rolls less than ten minutes later.

"That was a very effective speech you just made, Jason. You sold it to them perfectly. I hope you are pleased with yourself." Bruce commends me after we've been silent for close to five minutes. I want to tell him that I wasn't selling anything. I was just trying to get my feelings across. But I won't tell him that because he doesn't deserve it, not right now. So I just nod my head, slouch back and undo the top button on my shirt.

"Sure whatever. So now that's in place when can we expect to move forward with the next stage of this operation?" I ask yanking my tie knot away from my throat as well.

"The first therapy session is scheduled two days after tomorrow. The list of successful candidates has already been broadcast around the city and the accommodation is being prepared for immediate habitation as we speak."

"How'd you know our guys are going to go for it?"

"Because they're smart like you and know that this is a good deal. Trust me when I tell you that they will report to work tomorrow and do their absolute best to earn their way."

When we arrive back at the house, Bruce and I go our separate ways without saying another word. He goes to the cave and I head back upstairs to get rid of the disgusting corporate image my clothes are giving me. When I get to my room I find that _she's_ still here and rooting through my bedside table drawers. Well, rooting isn't the right word: she's sat on the edge of my bed neatly inspecting the few photos and keepsakes I actually leave there. She's studying me like a real detective would, probably trying to figure out how to get through what she thinks are my defences. I stand in the doorway and watch, conscious of the fact she knows I'm here and is choosing to ignore me. She wants me to know she isn't interested in just getting the upper hand for the next round of verbal sparring; she just wants to understand me.

"The file he gave me wasn't extensive. It read mostly like a police report and psychologist's thesis. It didn't say for example that you had any kind of religious beliefs." She says whilst displaying prayer beads in a manicured hand. I smirk at the very idea I believe in God.

"I don't. I found them in a subway bathroom when I was sleeping rough. I thought they were pretty so I kept them." That's almost the truth. I actually did find them in a subway bathroom but it was after the guy I was sucking off dropped them on his way out. She smiles at me.

"That's sweet. You're a bit of magpie aren't you? Plenty of shiny stuff in here."

"I'm not big into personal possessions. I prefer space." I inform her whilst wandering into the room and discarding my suit jacket and tie on the chair. "So I can dump shit wherever I feel like it." I add before kicking off my shoes. She puts my things away and closes the drawer.

"Do you not want me to be your tutor?" She asks me with seriousness I find unsettling. I respond by scoffing at the question like it's crazy.

"I told you to stick around didn't I? That means I like you. "I say taking off my shirt and pants. I banish them to the laundry basket even though they're both brand-new. She doesn't bat an eyelid, probably because of earlier today. That's good.

"Bruce says it's hard to read you. I guess he's right." She muses regarding me as I slip my workout sweats back on. I shake my head in disagreement.

"I'm not hard to read. I just make it a challenge. He needs someone he can't dissect like a worm in biology class. That's me."

"You think he's an asshole huh?" She says to make me smile. She's more perceptive than most people: they usually think I'm indifferent to Bruce not that I often despise him. I shrug.

"Maybe he can't help it but I'd like to think he could if he really wanted to."

"Yeah I used to think that too. He did the cold shoulder act to me and Dick as well."

"Not like this he didn't. Not like this." I tell her with more than a little bitterness. I expect her to do more talking and more defending of Bruce and his actions. When she pats the vacant part of the bed next to her I'm a lot more willing to listen. I wander over, sit down and look at her expectantly. She takes hold of my hand with hers and squeezes it. It reminds me vaguely of my mom doing something similar when I felt lonely or upset. It wasn't as girly as a hug or as ineffective as a pat on the head, but it did make me feel better. Barbara must be familiar with the trick because Bruce sure as hell isn't.

"This place must be pretty lonely for you then." She remarks without sounding overly sympathetic which I like too. I shrug.

"I have Al."

"It's more like Al has you. Bruce doesn't need anybody but he has you both. You need both but when it really comes down to it, you have neither." I jerk my hand away from hers and stand up.

"Jeez, want me to just cut my wrists now and be done with it?" I inquire whilst preparing to walk out the room.

"Jason, wait. I shouldn't have phrased it like that. It sounded pretty bad. What I meant is if you need a friend more than a tutor, I'm here for you." She calls after me. I want to accept her offer right now but I can't, so I don't. She should feel guilty about it and it should eat at her for a while. "I'll think about it. In the meantime, why don't you hit the bricks and give me some space. I need to masturbate at some point today and I really need my bed to do it." I say to leave her under no illusions of what I want to happen. Then I go downstairs without looking back at her.

I find Bruce logging data on the computer terminal. He looks to be compiling a list of his selected scheme candidates and entering the dates and times at which they accepted his offer of employment. He's still wearing his suit minus the tie and looks deep in concentration. His little minion hurt me just now with her casual observations of my social life. It stings more because of how easily she said it and how quickly I reacted: I had to leave straight away, a sign of weakness. If it's true, it's because of Bruce. I wait for him to focus his attentions on me. After three minutes, he breaks eye contact with the screen and regards me.

"What she just said hurt me. I know you told her to push the fact I was isolated from most of society here, but she could've had a little more tact than that." I snap at him, trying to switch my hurt to anger. He sighs lethargically.

"Sometimes Barbara has a tendency to cut to the chase when given a simple brief. She did not mean to upset you I am certain."

"Well as long as she didn't _mean_ to do it, it's all okay right?" I say in a mocking imitation of his voice. He shakes his head.

"No it's not. But I do want you to try and work with her from tomorrow morning. Ordinarily Barbara is very personable with the people around her, but she wasn't sure after her first meeting with you of how to proceed. I tried to direct her but I failed. That is my failing not hers and I am sorry it caused you pain." He apologizes but the truth is I'm already getting tired of his apologies like they exonerate him of any wrong-doing on his part. I hate words that are meaningless.

"Whatever." I say with a half-assed shrug and turn away to leave. For probably the first time in our entire history, the big guy does not simply watch me leave. He grabs hold of my wrist before I'm out of range and halts my advance. I look at him in silence with an expression I hope is unreadable because he is trying to study me with the same determination he uses to study criminals under interrogation. He doesn't say a word or even try to open his mouth while we stare at one another.

Without relinquishing the firm grasp he has on my wrist, Bruce swings the other chair to where I'm standing and gently pulls me down into it. I don't resist the motion and allow him to sit me down beside him. The big man then lets my wrist go before snaking an arm around my back and pulls me towards him until my head falls against his shoulder. At this point, his hand comes off my far shoulder and begins to lightly comb my hair without any hesitation. Unlike earlier, none of his movements are stiff or robotic: it all seems natural. I almost feel like he's finally grasped how indifferent I am to the effect opening his mouth and speaking has on me nowadays. It almost seems like he realises what it takes to make me pay attention to him. In either case, his revelations about me are way too late in coming. This should've been obvious, but it's rare he even attempts a stunt like this. I don't jerk my head away or tell him to stop because I'd like to pretend I actually have a father who loves me for a few minutes longer. So I close my eyes and fantasize about that tantalising possibility as Bruce carries on stroking my hair like I always hoped my old man would. He never did though, not his style.

Bruce doesn't ruin it by saying something dumb or sappy or awkward and just lets me enjoy my moment in his very narrow spotlight. I know after I open my eyes again everything will be the same as it ever was between us. I will get up and leave and this time he won't do anything to stop me. I'll go to the gym, shower, and have dinner and then suit up for tonight's patrol duties. Bruce will stay here, logging data until he decides to switch to surveillance or intelligence compilation and then probably wait for me to fly back to the nest. He'll get my report, I'll get my lumps for not being perfect and we'll both go to bed. It's a formula and a day I repeat all the time and just like a formula, it never changes. Because in his mind it works. And in my mind to try and change it would only result in a worse deal. I delude myself for another two minutes of Bruce's rationed affections, get up and then the scene plays out exactly as it did in my head. Groundhog Day.

I'm out on patrol, surrounded by nine potential rapists and shielding a terrified woman from their reach. I don't feelings out here and I don't need Bruce's affections: I just need to break some bones. Three of them appear to be the ringleaders of this merry troupe and I concentrate on them first. They've come prepared and have a wide array of knives and blunt objects on hand to try and take me down. But when two of them come in at once, both armed with short blades, I know they're strictly amateurs. The one charging from the left is a step ahead of his partner so I strike him first. I jab him in the throat with two stiff fingers to stun him before delivering a brutal roundhouse kick to the other guy's head as I pivot on my heel. The other seven back off slightly as the two of them crash and burn at my feet. To emphasise my point that kid gloves are off I hammer a boot into my throat man's ribs with enough force to break at least two of them. I turn to the woman, an attractive brunette in her late twenties.

"Stay perfectly still. This'll all be over soon." I whisper to her with a smile. She takes a deep breath and nods. I engage three of them in hand-to-hand combat, parrying hit after hit and countering with blows to their knees, ankles and floating ribs to take away both their power and vertical base. Bruce always said to work from the bottom up and I always do. That's why inside of twenty seconds, there are only four left and they look ready to drop a load in their pants right there. They haven't got the appetite for a battle with me anymore and are looking for an exit. Unfortunately between the back alley wall and me, they've got no room to manoeuvre. It takes me less than a minute to finish the job and leave myself as the only thing left standing. I crouch down beside the woman and tell her to open her eyes.

"See? I told you there was nothing to worry about. I'm going to call the cops and get you some professional assistance from GCPD's finest." I say helping her to her feet. She's still shook up by the experience, no surprise since when I got here they'd already started cutting off her clothes. She nods in understanding.

"Thank you." She tells me whilst trying to regain her composure. Her expression of relief morphs into a frown when she looks at my face. "You're hurt." She says. I touch my lip and find fresh blood.

"It's nothing. I'm fine."

"Your nose is broken." She informs me in a matter-of-fact tone that suggests she's works in the medical racket. I don't think I even felt it happen. She starts scanning the alleyway, "I've got something to help ease the pain in my bag."

"Really lady it's not necessary." I say only for her to pick up the bag resting near the dumpster and begin foraging through it. She shakes her head.

"Kids your age are always saying crap like that – even when they break arms or sever fingers. Trust me I've worked as an ER nurse for long enough to know that bravery is the same as stupidity if you don't bother to look after yourself. Hold still." She examines my nose and nods. "It's a clean break. It just needs setting and the bones should heal just fine." She sets it back in place there and then. Despite the excruciating pain it causes, I don't move. She raises her eyebrows. "Jeez, you really are a tough guy: most sixteen-year-olds cry and all of them scream to some degree or another, but not you." She comments whilst wiping away the blood from my upper lip with some disinfectant wipes.

"I'm not supposed to be like everybody else." I offer before considering something else she mentioned. "How did you know I was sixteen?" She smiles.

"I'm very good at guessing people's ages. How old do you think I am?"

"Forty-five." She rolls her eyes and smirks.

"Very funny. Now that should do for the minute, but you need to make sure you get that properly looked at as soon as possible. Here's some ibuprofen to take down the swelling and some parcetemol for the pain. It's probably not going to be that great, but it's all I've got." She says handing some blue and pink pills. I incline my head in gratitude.

"Thanks for the help Nurse."

"It's Sandra. Feel free to drop by the clinic any time for a free check-up, Robin."

"I thought you worked in the ER."

"There's only so much violence you can take in a hospital. I left about six months ago to work someplace less hectic." She says with a slightly sad smile on her lips. I radio the police, wait until they arrive to cart away the scum and then, once Sandra's safe, I leave to finish my rounds. As I head towards The Narrows to wrap up the night, I can't help thinking about how nice some ordinary people are. She didn't even know me but treated me like a friend anyway. I know I saved her life from irreparable damage, but it still didn't mean she was obligated to offer me any help. If our positions were reversed and she was saving me, I know for a fact I wouldn't want to try and repay her: I'd be too embarrassed and probably too scared to do anything but run off as soon as the coast was clear. The fact she didn't says a lot about her character…and Barbara's. I should give her another chance away from Bruce. I'll try again when she comes round tomorrow…or later this morning seeing as it's just gone midnight.

I'm in the middle of negotiating with a gang of thieves in The Narrows. Well, really it's more like a bit of gentle wrestling. Well, really it's more like six versus one in a slugfest. Well, really it's pretty much over already. I'm just knocking down the last one when I sense another reinforcement to my left flank. I whip round and connect to their solar plexus with enough momentum and power to send them flying a couple of feet. As soon as I hit them I realise my mistake. Batgirl is sprawled on the floor in a heap. After a few seconds of groaning, Barbara gets to her feet clutching her stomach.

"My god you hit hard! It's like I got into a fight with a cement truck." She says sucking in air through her teeth. I roll my eyes at yet another example of her invading my privacy without permission. I gesture at her costume.

"What the hell are you doing? He told me you retired a while back."

"Since you weren't willing to let me get to know you at the house, I figured the streets would be the next best place to understand you." She explains having recovered from the hit. I narrow my eyes.

"You've been following me all night?"

"Only the last couple of hours. You beat up a hell of a lot of people in a night. Where do you get the energy?"

"Pop-tarts." I say without any humour. She sighs.

"Look, I meant what I said earlier. I'm sorry for upsetting you and I want to be your friend. Can we just put it behind us?"

I pretend to consider her offer for a couple of minutes, just to make her sweat a little. Since she's come all the way out here and is clearly still feeling bad over what she said, I can rule out tampering. I nod my head in agreement. "Fine. I'm wrapping things up for the night. Once these morons are under lock and key, I'm heading home. I'll see you there later." I tell her before turning to my radio. She leaves as soon as I take my eye off her. For a girl who's been out of the game for a while, she sure can shadow someone well: I didn't even know she was watching. But her conditioning's soft and so are her reflexes: I can dodge sucker punches like that in my sleep and even if I can't, my abs soak up punishment easily. Why am I assessing her abilities as a fighter when she just wanted to conduct one more field study? Because somehow I don't think this is going to be a one-off thing: I think Bruce wants her to chaperone me here as well as at home. If she doesn't tighten up and get her range back, the likelihood of me getting killed goes sky-high if I have to concentrate on protecting her too.

GCPD cart away the dregs, I thank them for their assistance on the big man's behalf and then start back to the cave. When I arrive back I find Al in his dressing gown fussing over some food on a serving tray near the command centre. I'm tired as I climb the stairs to the upper levels of the cave and when I reach where the old man is, I'm close to collapse.

"You got cake, Al?"

Only for young men with eager appetites, Sir."

"I've got an appetite alright." I tell him even though it's a complete lie. I hate disappointing him when he's made this kind of effort just for me. But I can't stop myself falling back into the command chair to give part of the game away. He puts a blanket round my shoulders without even thinking and hands me a piece of strawberry cake on a plate.

"I hope this is to your liking then." He tells me whilst pulling up a chair beside me. I take a bite and shake my head in disbelief that this man is someone's butler when he should have his own cooking show.

"It's a knockout." I say taking another bite and then setting it down. He smiles in understanding. He knows I'll either be sick or fall asleep if I try to eat anymore than I already have. He pats me on the back.

"Let's get you to bed young man."

"I'm sorry Al. It looks really good but I just can't." He responds by stroking my hair softly and nodding.

"I know Jason. I know."

Al helps me up to the house and to the shower. Once I'm clean of stale sweat and other people's blood, he puts me in bed and examines my new bruises and my broken nose in particular. "I think it is an improvement. Your face was simply too pristine before. Now it has almost a Picasso-like quality to it." He says with a wry smile. I love you Al.

"Bite me old man."

"And you may tell me about it in the morning. From the assistance you've already received for it, I'm confident you can just go to sleep and worry about how swollen it gets tomorrow." And that's my cue to exit. I think I'm drifting before he's even halfway across the room.


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's Note: One more chapter after this and then Endgame is finished. Enjoy.**

**Confessions**

"My old man was murdered when I was twelve. Instead of foster care I went on the streets. And at first, everything was okay." I tell the group I'm sitting in. I shrug. "I'd been pickpocketing and hustling since I was ten so for the first few weeks, I got by with the help of a few five-finger discounts and classic cons down the pool hall. I didn't get too greedy. I kept the take small to stop them beating the shit out of me. But they got wise quickly. Marks protected their valuables better. A buck was harder to come by." When I finally find the courage to look up from my clasped hands, everybody in the room is listening intently to what I have to say. I think they've heard this one before. I'd stop talking but now I'm rolling I have to finish. I swallow hard.

"After holding out for five months on nothing but pennies, I sold my body for the first time. I was just…" I close my eyes for a moment as I try to articulate the end of that sentence. I open them, look around and laugh before shaking my head. "I was just so fucking hungry I would've done anything. When I went with this guy, I hadn't eaten in four days. It felt like my stomach was trying to eat itself before he made the offer in the subway. Plus, I think I was a little dehydrated too, a little spaced. So I didn't really hear what he was asking me to do. All I heard was food if I did as I was told." The black kid on my right, the one who gave me dirty looks when I came in and sat down, is dumbfounded by what I'm saying. He can tell I'm serious. His name's Lenny Johnson and he's one of the guys Bruce is interested in. He's about my age, maybe a little older and definitely a street tough and gang leader. He frowns.

"So what happened, man?" He asks me, putting a hand on my shoulder. I notice the gang tattoo on his forearm that says he belongs to the Killaz, strictly territorial gangbangers down in Park Row and with past relations to Two-Face. I look at him and smirk.

"I did exactly what I was told." Lenny squeezes my shoulder supportively and nods in what looks like complete understanding. I think I've won him over already. I incline my head in appreciation and his hand falls away. I turn back to the group. "We went into the subway bathroom, into one of the cubicles and he told me to get down on my knees. Then he opened his flies, pulled out his dick and stuck it in my mouth. I just about managed not to choke. It went on for a while, like five minutes, and then he stood me back up and spun me around." They all know what's coming next and most of them look both disgusted and mesmerized in equal measure. I know what happens next too, but I'm not in the mood to tell them. Somehow though, I can see managing to utter just a few more words of the story is going to swing them all in my favour for good. So I push on even though my stomach is doing backflips and my heart is beginning to pound in my chest. "He pulled down my pants and underwear…bent me forward over the cistern and then…took whatever innocence I had left to offer in the next three minutes." I nod, satisfied I've given them the best version of my first time. I'm silent for a long time after that.

"How much did he pay you?" Alice Tate, a fifteen-year-old girl from the Bowery, asks from across the room. She's seems like a nice enough girl, but the nose piercings and tattoos on her neck kind of kill my interest. I smile at her.

"Seven dollars. It was just enough to buy a Burger Deluxe Meal from Eddie's down in the Narrows. For the fifteen minutes it took me to eat it all, everything was okay again. When it was over, I just felt numb." I remember I didn't walk right for two weeks. I remember I said to myself that I'd never go that low again. I remember that promise lasted all of three months. No-one else speaks for an even longer time than I did. The guy heading the group, a Hispanic man in his late forties with a neat goatee and general air of professionalism called Michael, nods in appreciation.

"Thank you Jason. It was very brave of you to start the discussion like that. If you don't to share more, I think we'll understand." The guy says in a sincere tone of voice. I can tell he cares about his work. That means Bruce had to do some serious digging to find him. I frown.

"Would you guys mind if I ran my mouth some more?" When they all shake their heads in unison, I'm not surprised. Stories like mine interest people. I mean, they know I'm from a broken home and they know I've done some hard yards on the streets, but they want to know how I got to here. I'm not still where they are and they want to know why and more importantly how I escaped. They know Bruce Wayne is my saviour, but they want to know how I found him and how I ran with it. As it turns out, I kind of want to tell them too. It felt like I was going to die earlier when recapping my first customer, but now it's out in the open, I feel relief. It's one less skeleton I need to hide. I want to feel that release of pressure again. So I continue talking. I think I talk for something like another hour, completely killing off the entire session time in the process. Nobody says a word by the closing stages of my story, even Michael.

I outline the basics of my other six customers, my attempt to steal the wheels off Bruce's car and his pity for my situation. I tell them it was a Bentley and that he was there to mourn the spot where his parents were gunned down instead of the truth. They all buy it easily enough: I get the impression they all think Bruce Wayne is a bit of a weirdo anyway. It's okay though, better a weirdo than the bat-clad freak he really is. In reeling off the darkest part of my history and revealing the blackest details of my torment on Gotham's streets, I've managed to do something I have never been able to do in Bruce or Al's presence. Somehow strangers make things easier. Somehow I feel better than I have in a long time. Because even though I've poured my guts out, Bruce still doesn't know. And he never will. And that's why I still feel strong and capable despite showing vulnerability: because the big guy is clueless about the truth. When Michael signals that we're out of time and that we'll have to pick things up at the next session, everyone else leaves. I stay.

"Hey Michael?" I ask as the man begins clearing away his notes on the session into a professional-looking briefcase.

"Yes Jason?"

"I'm sorry I hijacked your session there. I didn't mean to yammer on so much." The guy turns to me and smiles.

"It's not a big deal. You obviously had a lot of stuff to get off your chest. It's good you were able to vent." I can tell the guy is sincere in what he says, honest to a point I'm not familiar with in his field of expertise: shrinks are usually always so cryptic. Since he's so open and also a professional, I have to ask the obvious.

"So what did you think of what I said?" He frowns at me.

"What do you mean?"

"Did you think…I was…disgusting to do what I did?"

"Not even slightly. You were just trying to survive." Michael tells me with a shake of his head. "And quite frankly, I'm amazed you were able to go to such lengths just to stay alive. I've never heard of a twelve-year-old lasting fourteen months on Gotham's streets without having any gang affiliations or a network of friends. It's remarkable."

"Well you'll be glad to know I don't have any other tales to tell on the next session. At least you can listen to someone else's voice for a change."

"All the same, I'm very grateful you were the first one to speak. Your contribution is going to be invaluable in getting the others to open up. I got the impression they were a lot more willing to speak towards the end than at the beginning and that is entirely thanks to you." He informs me picking up his briefcase and gesturing to the door, "Would you care to walk me out?" I like Michael's style. He doesn't push or force issues. He doesn't insist on doing things a set way. He just waits for an opportunity, an opening to capitalize and build on. He's a really good guy. I could definitely work with him again. I walk with him to his car. We make a little small talk about the Gotham Knights and their chances during the remaining games of the post-season and then he's gone. Al picks me up from outside the centre some fifteen minutes later.

Whenever it's just me and Al in the car, I ride up front with him. He thinks it's unprofessional to allow me to do it, but secretly I know he likes the company. Today is no different. He greets me in his usual manner and then it's at least five minutes of silence before he chooses to speak again.

"How was your therapy session, young man?" I shrug my shoulders.

"It was okay."

"So you are not…upset by anything that may have been said during the session?" He asks a little tentatively. The old man is always delicate in broaching these kind of subjects. He doesn't want to hurt my feelings. It means a lot. I shake my head.

"No. I feel fine."

"I'm very glad to hear that. Would it be too bold to inquire what exactly you told them?" He says with more confidence now he knows I'm still as solid as ever. I grin.

"For anyone else but you, Al. I told them everything." I see an involuntary raise of his brow in response to that answer. He frowns.

"Everything?"

"Yep, the whole sorry story about Jason Todd's life on the streets."

"I would have thought such a story would require an awful amount of time to properly tell."

"That's why I talked for the whole session. Nobody else said a word."

"Then may I say how proud I am of you, Master Jason. It takes a far greater amount of courage and mental fortitude to confront such personal demons in a public forum than it does to face down an army of thugs and degenerates. I hope you are proud of yourself as well. You have every right to be."

"Thanks, but Bruce is going to be pissed. I didn't manage to get any information on Two-Face's location."

"I would argue your mental health and well-being are of far greater importance than Mr. Dent's current whereabouts."

"Yeah, but you would, Al: you're human."

We arrive back at the house shortly before four in the afternoon. I go straight up to my room. Bruce is already there. He's not waiting for me though: when I get in the doorway, I see he's looking around the room in a general sort of way like a real estate agent might appraise a property. He's still dressed in his business suit and tie but seems to be lost in thought: he doesn't notice me even when I advance a few steps inside, a rare occurrence to say the least. He's definitely thinking about me otherwise he wouldn't be in my room, but I don't know what he could be musing on whilst staring at this blank slate of a bedroom. Suddenly his ears prick up. It's a minute tilt of his head, but it means he has become aware of my presence.

"I apologize for the intrusion, Jason. I did not intend to be here when you arrived back." He says without emotion or turning to face me.

"I didn't get any information about Two-Face." I tell him. He nods in understanding.

"I expected as much. I would imagine you succeeded in gaining their trust though?"

"Yeah, they'll talk during the next session for sure."

"That is fine. We still have time. What was your impression of those potential targets I gave you? I was rather hopeful for Leonard Johnson." Yeah, he should be: the intel he gave me was spot on for the guy's reactions to my stories. I give him what he wants to hear.

"I think if anyone'll know anything about Lumpy's location, he will."

"And can I tell Mr. Hoya to expect you on Thursday?"

"Yeah whatever you need."

"Then I shall leave you to your own devices until dinner." Bruce says finally turning around. My eyes widen at the sight. The big guy's face is a mess. He's got a black eye, a split lip and maybe half-a-dozen stitches over his forehead. Added to that are several other fist-sized bruises dotting his jawline and right cheek. I know his patrol got rough last night while I was taking a night off to recover for today's mental beat-down, but I didn't expect this kind of damage. I can't help but grimace as he advances towards the door.

"Are you okay?" I ask. He stops a foot or so in front of me and nods whilst slipping his hands into his pant pockets.

"Yes I'm fine. I merely encountered firmer resistance than I had anticipated. It is nothing to concern yourself with. How was your session?"

"It was fine. I was able to say a lot of things I haven't been able to say in the past."

"I am glad it proved beneficial to you. And how was your tutoring with Barbara this morning? Alfred informs me she was impressed with your knowledge of poetry." He says in the same empty tone he's been using since the start of the conversation. Looking at him, I'm surprised he can talk at all with that kind of damage: sore jaws and split lips hurt like hell when you're trying to form coherent vowels. I try to shrug off his compliment.

"I just recited a few lines of Hemmingway for her. It's all I can remember of Al's lessons on the arts."

"Regardless it would appear your relationship as student and tutor could yet bear fruit. I am pleased with your efforts, both in your studies and extra-curricular activities. As a reward, I think it is only fitting that I excuse you duties for a few days. You may take an entire week if you wish. It is entirely up to you." I scrutinize the big man's face again. I want numbers. If he had any number below thirty to contend with, he wouldn't have a scratch on him: it had to have been a hell of a scrap to leave that kind of mark.

"How many were there?"

"I counted forty-one combatants at the outset of the encounter. It is not inconceivable that more joined the battle as it gathered momentum. It is nothing to concern yourself with."

"Yeah, but I've seen you take down fifty guys before single-handedly and then go and take another thirty an hour later on the same patrol. Is everything alright?"

"I admit to being somewhat…distracted during the closing stages of the encounter: it was during the last five or six minutes that I sustained the majority of my injuries." Bruce would not say distracted if it was not some sort of mental problem. If it were physical, say a light in his eyes, tear gas or maybe being blindsided during the fight, he would have used the word impaired. When he says distracted, it's because he is thinking about something that is too problematic to simply split his concentration on. Since he's here, in my room and not the cave or his study, he was distracted because he was thinking about me. Facing down forty-one thugs who wanted his blood and the guy was thinking about me.

"You didn't know how it was going to go today, did you?" I say. Bruce's expression is still blank as he answers.

"No."

"Were you worried going to this counselling crap might hurt me?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I cannot read you. I was also concerned my attempts to help you confront difficult issues from your past would backfire and cause you to regress further into yourself."

"You thought I'd become you?" I say. Bruce doesn't even blink in the face of that pretty strong analogy of the situation.

"No. I feared you would lose your restraint." Nice. He thought I might start killing people. I don't think I'm that far gone just yet, even if today had gone south. I shrug.

"Well, it hasn't." He nods.

"I am aware of that now."

"And I want to join you on patrol tonight." I inform him. He raised an eyebrow in obvious surprise.

"How is your nose? It still appears somewhat discoloured from here." He says regarding it with some trace of concern across his face. Yeah, it's still bruised and pretty tender, but not hard to live with.

"It's fine. I'm good to go."

"You are under no obligation to join me this evening."

"Are you still worried about me?" I say. For just a fraction of a second, I see him hesitate in responding. He's more than a little human today.

"I do not wish to upset you."

"I'm not going to get mad if you say yes. Most parents never stop worrying about their kids. Considering what we do on a nightly basis and my own less than glittering past, I'd understand." Bruce is still less than willing to verbalise his thoughts. So I speak for him. "Yes, you're still worried is the short answer you want to give me. My counter offer to that is if I go on patrol with you, you can see how okay I feel for yourself. Nothing says happy-go-lucky than being able to beat-up scumbags without any problems. I know I can't stop you worrying altogether, but at least by doing this you can worry a little less." The big guy nods in both appreciation and agreement. It means something to know he cares this much beneath the surface. He hides it because he's trained to. It takes a hard night to show me how much he cares, but at least he's shown me something.

"Thank you Jason. I will see you at dinner."

It's about seven hours later. We're in the Bowery, back-to-back and fighting off a small army of hired goons sent out to do some fire sales on nearby businesses. It looks like local turf wars are escalating a little. We foil the arson attacks and then have to contend with their backup numbers arriving. It isn't all that difficult. As long as you hit them in the face, the ribs or the groin, they go down hard enough to stay there. That's all I concentrate on with my share. Bruce meanwhile is probably employing projectiles, nerve strikes and variety to deal with his numbers. I'd turn around to look, but I don't want to break ranks while we're still getting swarmed. Once they've been dealt with, I ask him about leads for Two-Face's location.

"I had believed last night's lead was promising, however it proved to be a dead-end. I still maintain that those individuals in your counselling group are the best leads we have. Other than that, we have only one other avenue to explore." He tells me whilst scanning the immediate area for some grapnel purchase.

"What's that?"

"We get lucky." He says without humour. I get why: guys in our line of work don't get lucky, especially with the amount of mirrors we break and illegal gambling dens we close down every month. Twenty minutes later, a typical example of our kind of luck presents itself on the police scanner. There's been a homicide in Park Row, close to the area Wayne Enterprises has housed its apprenticeship personnel. The details begin to mount up as we draw closer to the crime scene: African-American male, roughly mid-to-late teens, approximately six feet in height, and multiple stab wounds to the abdomen as primary cause of death. According to the tattoo on his forearm, he belongs to the Killaz. It sounds suspiciously like someone I may have met today. When he arrive on scene fifteen minutes later, the body is under a tarp and forensics are swarming all over it. Jim Gordon isn't working the primary investigation, Harvey Bullock is. As soon as he sees us, he warns us away.

"Thanks, but we don't need your help, fellas. This is an open and shut case. The kid here was the victim of his gang affiliations. The Killaz don't like one of their own turning their back on the gangbanger way of life. This is a straight-up honour killing. We can find the scumbags responsible pretty easily given the DNA evidence the lab boys are turning up." I have to give it to the guy: he is a solid detective even with his prejudices. All we want is an I.D.

"Have you been able to formally identify the body?" The big guy asks as cordially as he's capable of doing under the cowl. Harvey turns to his notebook and flips to the first page.

"The kid's name is Leonard Johnson, seventeen-years-old and recently enrolled in this Wayne Enterprises scheme. Poor kid probably never stood a chance growing up in that neighbourhood of being anything other than one of them." That is our typical luck when we need some good fortune or we've done the hard yards to get on the cusp of our result: witnesses turn up dead. I take a cursory glance under the sheet to check we're not dealing with mistaken identity. When Lenny's lifeless eyes meet mine, I can't help but voice my disappointment.

"Fuck."

We spend the next three hours combing the streets for the killers. We're not lucky enough to simply stumble across them, but we do turn up the murder weapons, a couple of wooden shivs tossed into a trash can, less than two blocks from the crime scene. We radio in the cops to collect one of them while Bruce pockets the other for forensic testing of his own. We return to the crime scene but with the amount of trace from the forensic team in the area, it's impossible to get much more than what we already know. Even though Bullock's probably right about this being an honour killing by Lenny's gang, there's a slight chance Two-Face hired them to bump off the poor kid before he could spill his guts. It's virtually non-existent, but with Lenny bumped off, it's the only premise we can grab hold of. We need to make sure that finding the killers doesn't somehow mean finding the former D.A. as well.

We head back to the cave for around two in the morning. We run tests on our shiv and get a partial thumb print on the handle. There's just enough markers available to get an I.D through the computer database. The guy we're after is Alistair Taylor-Brown, a.k.a. Preach, a mid-level player in the Killaz hierarchy. He's already got prior for this kind of crime, including a stretch in Blackgate for a murder charge and Gotham County awaiting trial for other murders of which he was later acquitted. He seems a likely candidate for a hit man even without his fingerprints and someone else's blood on a known murder weapon. By this stage of the night, I'm in my workout sweats having taken a shower while the forensics were being analysed. The big guy has also managed a quick rinse before donning his dressing gown and slippers for the heavy part of the analysis.

"He could have been hired by Dent. Do you see what I mean?" Bruce says as we read the guy's jacket over again. I see three convictions for what could pass for honour killings within the gang. A weird fact about Killaz if they are going to kill one of their own: they only kill on Tuesdays. Why Tuesdays? According to Bruce, they have meetings on Wednesday that pass as some kind of state of address. Thursdays they're out supplementing their income, same applies to the weekend. Mondays they have what could be classed as a day off. Tuesdays are the only day when they allow for that kind of punishment. I don't want to know how the big man knows their routine so well, but I do see all the other dates mentioned match up for Tuesdays. With today being Thursday, killing one of their own feels off.

"I see it but it's incredibly thin on the ground. It could just be an unsanctioned killing or revenge for something else."

"I wasn't merely referring to the day of the week. Look again."

I scan the information again. Something in the known associates' column jumps out at me. It's a single name of the ten or so present. Harry Marsh. There's something about that name I know links to Two-Face. I look at the big man and shrug.

"Harry Marsh?" Bruce smiles at me, something he never does, and nods.

"Marsh is known associate of both Alistair Taylor-Brown and Harvey Dent. He is also out on bail relating to minor theft and fraud. His location is also unknown. In the past, he has acted as Dent's lieutenant in criminal affairs. It is not inconceivable that Dent told Marsh to hire Taylor-Brown to kill Leonard Johnson."

"But it's just a theory. Is there any other proof we can lean on?"

"Perhaps. At present, only we know of Taylor-Brown's involvement in the killing. We have a last known address in Park Row, less than half a mile from the crime scene. We could question him now."

"But surely by now, Gordon and his men have got a positive match from the other shiv and are heading over to arrest their man: doesn't that mean our guy is going take a little vacation for the time being?"

"Shall we check?" Bruce says already keying in the area code and phone number listed for the residence. This is grasping at straws now. Criminals never pick up the phone like this. But we're desperate now our star witness has been iced. He puts it on speaker and we both sit quiet as the dial tone repeats for over a minute. Just when the big guy is about to terminate the call, someone picks up the receiver.

"_Yeah?" _A deep voice asks. Bruce takes a second before answering in a nasally Bronx accent.

"That you, Preach?"

"_Harry? Man, what you doing calling me here? You said no landlines, only disposables."_ Holy fucking shit: did we just get lucky? Jesus Christ it's an actual miracle. The big man is quick on his feet and immediately presses the issue.

"Look, the boss needs to know if our 'problem' has been fixed." He's good, avoiding all the key words that are inadmissible in court like 'murdered' or 'grasser'. The answer comes back quick and definitely hurried.

"_Hell yeah it's been taken care of, but L.A.M's been busted."_ L.A.M is probably Lamar Davis, one of Alistair's best friends in the gang. Bruce is already a step ahead though.

"Okay, I'll take care of it. You okay?"

"_Yeah I'm cool, man. I need to get out of this place for a while though."_

"You stay there one more hour and then we'll get you out of there."

"_An hour? Man this area's hot! The cops are all over this place! I ain't got more than another damn minute before they're knocking on my door too!" _Okay we got a flight risk here. The guy's nervous and understandably too since he's just killed some kid in cold blood. The big man has to be tactful in getting him to stay grounded in the neighbourhood.

"Hey, your boys'll protect you until we can get there, alright? Just hang tough and we'll be there soon. Have I ever let you down?" There's a short and tense silence as Bruce's big risk is mulled over. We don't know if Harry Marsh has ever screwed this guy over, but we can hope he hasn't. Finally, after nearly thirty seconds, Alistair comes back over the airwaves.

"_Shit man…alright, I'm going to trust you this once, Harry. I'll stay put. But get here quick, man: it ain't safe." _He hangs up and the line goes dead. Bruce and I exchange glances. I have to say it before the moment passes.

"That was absolutely fucking incredible. How did you know Marsh had a Bronx accent?"

"He was born in Hoboken, New Jersey. It was either Bronx or North Jersey, so I guessed."

"Good guess. And the nasally edge you added to it?"

"I may have heard him speak briefly on the telephone during a previous operation involving Dent. I recall it was quite high pitched." I can't help but grin at him.

"We got lucky." I say. Bruce smiles and nods in total agreement.

"We got lucky."

"What now?"

"We get Gordon to pick him up in less than twenty minutes and to hold him for questioning. We hand over the other murder weapon, saying we found it after a second search and linked it to Taylor-Brown. Then once he's been held for twenty-four hours, we'll press him for information on Marsh's whereabouts."

"And Lamar?"

"He's just insurance. I'm pretty sure he'll know nothing unless Taylor-Brown told him. I highly doubt he would have told him anything important."

"So we'll probably find lumpy features in what, less than forty-eight hours?" I say. Bruce smirks.

"With any luck."


End file.
